


nothing beside remains

by deepandlovelydark



Series: Ecstasy in Cosmogone [15]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Sunless Sea
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anachronisms, Black Comedy, Canonical Character Death, Seeking Mr Eaten's Name, an absence of bubblegum, the sigil for runaway degeneracy, unnecessary violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-05-31 22:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 39,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15129068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark
Summary: If the play were given at Veilgarden, it might be titled "Mr Eaten Has No Nose! The Altogether Improbable and Scurrilous Adventures of a Seeker, Imagined as Farce." If the play were given: which it will not, because the Ministry of Public Decency would never allow such an outrage. Such a work, they would claim, could not possibly exist, and if it did they would confiscate it faster than a honey addict grabs a teaspoon.Where, then, originates this penny suchenroman you now read? No knowing: but it's a ripping yarn.Quite literally.





	1. holding the wolf in chace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChangelingChilde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangelingChilde/gifts).



> For GuesssWho, who has been awaiting my apocalyptic Seeking rewrite for rather a long time now. The premise is this: it takes place after chapter thirty-nine of "Fulgent Engineering," when my Innocent Spy is on the cusp of Seeking, and more than ready for madness. In the original tale, the Crewmember helps free him of the Name, allowing their voyage to continue peacefully. Or as peacefully as the average Unterzee voyage, anyhow. 
> 
> That does not happen here. Instead there was an Alteration, and they set a route north to Hunter's Keep. 
> 
> North was not the wisest move.

The Alteration, the Herald tells them, had been a small one; fortunate, or they never could have ridden it out at zee, huddled in the hold and listening to their  _Clipper’s_ hull wailing against the strain. But when all’s said and done, everything seems the same afterwards. Cargo all in order, ship still watertight. Everyone in possession of the correct number of limbs.

And yet, and yet…not the same at all, the Spy reckons to himself; had the Student’s self-regard always been this pronounced, did the Herald always go for blood as well as wit, was the Captain quite this neglectful? The Crewmember has since been well-nigh moronic, shying fearfully away from him and babbling scraps of invocations to non-existent gods.

Or perhaps they’re just the same as before, and he’s the one who’s changed. Less innocent, less patient. Less alienated, from an environment that violates every rule of common sense and scientific law formerly so dear to his heart. Ever since that long night on Mutton Island, soaking up a thousand tales of Seekers from the yielding sphinxstone altar, he seems more attuned to continual darkness, and the guidance of false-stars.

“You know how it is, Mog,” he whispers, petting it and winning only a scratch for his pains. Even the cat’s become more violent.

He licks the upwelling of blood off his hand, savouring the taste (oh god, oh god; the richness of that iron). Sleeping has been difficult lately, with too many dreams of Surface life. Sunlight harsh and burning. Old friends who whisper a name he cannot hear, and feed him faery cakes that vanish; it’s enough to drive anybody to coffee.

The cat hisses at him. He eyes its plump figure, feels a deep, uneasy growl roiling in his belly. Doesn’t take much to stir that unceasing hunger, these days. Cheap mushroom broth doesn’t stay him like it used to.

“Starveling Cat,” he says, just to see what will happen.

It flees. Wrong naming.

Probably wise, the Spy considers; and turns back to work. His Correspondence study is going well, at least; the more terms he transcribes, the more press upon his mind, begging to come out. Old Surface habits of self-inflicted isolation have been settling about him again, familiar as old scars.

He’ll work out his own salvation alone.

*********

“The laywoman is in the habit-”

“Or layman, in my case,” the Student interrupts.

“Or layperson,” the Herald continues, without breaking stride, “is in the habit of thinking that an Alteration can be said to come about because of a singular event, just because of that damned professor’s article connecting up a storm at Mount Palmerston with a Port Carnelian flutterby. When in actuality an Alteration builds on a succession of events. You can sometimes point to one main cause, but there’s always more to it.”

The Student scowls at her with sour laziness; she’s been pacing across the wardroom for a quarter of an hour now, while he sulks on a cushion-pile. “I’d disagree with that. Suppose someone borrowed an infernal contraption, went back in time and shot the Empress before she had a chance to bargain with the Masters. That’d be a singular event.”

“Achilles’s turtle. You can’t point to a singular event because there is no such thing as ‘singular’. The vanishing point never quite reaches zero.”

“And why are you telling me all this, again?”

“Because I don’t think that now is a propitious time for a voyage. The zee’s against us. We should go back to London and take shelter, try our luck later-“

"Because there’s been an Alteration and you’re jumpy,” the Student scoffs. "You know, if we’re ever in Whither I’ll stamp on that temple of yours, just to prove the point. There wasn’t enough unwind to shift the Bonny Reefs, you said so yourself.”

"Don’t mock me. You wanted a navigator, you have a navigator. But zailing the Unterzee isn’t like a Surface ocean, it’s as much mental discipline as sorting though charts and maps. And what I say is,” the Herald says, through set teeth, “just because I can’t taste any differences does not mean nothing happened. I’d be much better pleased if I had time to stop and reckon what’s changed.”

"We go forward,” the Student says firmly, “and if I have to break our Captain down to crew to do it, I will. This ship’s been dillydallying long enough. I have an appointment in Frostfound to keep.”

“Then let’s stop by Hunter’s Keep, at least. The Innocent might benefit from Stone’s favour. She’s always had a little more kindness than the others.”

“I doubt any god’s kindness is going to help him now,” the Student mutters. “Seeker.”

“Don’t say that,” the Crewmember interrupts. “Bad luck to say the words, you ought to know that.”

Silence falls; they can’t tell if their point was taken or no. Perhaps it was.

Perhaps this is like the old story, when a cassandra ventured through the mirrors to find the downfall of the Second City, coming back with sure and certain warning- that nobody listened to, because they had emerged a hundred years too late.

Perhaps it’s just the irrigo, and nobody can remember they’re here any more. That seems the likeliest explanation.

“Officers,” they mutter. “See if I stick my oar in again. All go to the Drownie King’s seat together, for what I care.”

Which is, in fact, the Alteration; although nobody ever does realise that.

The results will be distinctly unfortunate.


	2. well-intentioned

Under normal circumstances, very little could have convinced the Student to take a long walk in the moonlight. As he’s pointed out to the Crewmember more than once, he is an academic, not an athlete.

Nevertheless, he’s puffing across the island with all due haste now. Even chivvying the Spy along.

“They have a well here?” the Spy says. More a statement than a question. His teeth are very white.

“Yes, they do,” the Student promises. He is afraid, horribly so. Arcane secrets and forbidden lore are all very well in their way, but this is no quest for Summerset to ever sanction. The Crewmember can joke all they like about the University having a department for everything, but there’ll be no sanction for Seeking, never for Seeking.

It is with only a trace of guilt that he remembers his own undergraduate indulgence; but that was for one day, not for weeks on end, a sobering abstinent recovery from the drunken bacchanalia of one especially overwhelming term-end party. Seeking’s different here at Zee. No friendly chestnut sellers here, no exasperated Masters to shunt the perverted into safer paths.

“Is it the well? The one they drowned him in?”

“Possibly. Possibly. You can at least look.”

The longer anyone seeks, the more dangerous they are; everybody knows that. The very urchins in Spite keep a watchful count of their numbers, lest any go missing to unhallowed hungers.

“Only this better be good. And quick, I could do with a midnight snack.”

Their Innocent’s turned ravenous, hollow-eyed, concave. The untidy mop of hair is wilder than ever, if finally shortened; he keeps chewing it in fits of absent-mindedness. The Herald has been checking their library for hairball remedies, in case of need.

Which is the most disgusting thing the Student’s heard since that catty Bethnic sketch night. “It’s Mr Eaten that’s doing this, you know. You might just give it up. Nobody’s succeeded in freeing the deuced monstrosity from its horrors in hundreds of years, and you’re certainly not going to be the one to succeed.”

“I can try,” the Spy says, quite matter of fact. “If only because it’ll annoy you. If only because it’ll annoy everyone- this entire stupid, complacent Neath, so self-absorbed. So indifferent! At least Mr Eaten’s not indifferent, whatever else he is- and whether it’s cold revenge or burning forgiveness he wants I can’t tell, but at least it’s something else!”

“Then you’re going to stick with this quest. Even though it’s bound to destroy you.”

“Oh, certainly,” the Innocent says, almost sounding like himself again. “Getting out of suicide missions alive, that was always a speciality of mine back on the Surface. Trust me, I’m very good.”

“All right. We’re here. You’ll have to shove the cover off the well, I can’t manage it myself.”

The Student has spent a considerable period buttering up the Sisters, gaining their favour, playing the little games they require for access here. Worth it for this moment. The Spy leans over the lip of the well, balancing precariously.

Something moves about, below.

“Hullo?” the Innocent calls. “Anyone at home?”

The Student tips him in with one rapid push, and shuts the lid. Sighs.

“Well, that’s him gone. And I didn’t even get thirty pieces of silver out of it,” he remarks to nobody.

He whistles a Veilgarden opera all the way back to the ship.

*****

_Dear Molly._

“I don’t know why I’m writing to you,” the Captain says, setting down his pen with such force as to snap the quill in twain. “You’re dead, you’re gone, and I’ve been making rather a fool of myself over the whole matter.”

He has not spent patient years at Zee for nothing; there’s mutiny on the wind, a threat to his beloved  _Clipper._ Something that touches ancient instincts. He takes care in putting on his newest dress uniform, stiff and starched. Epitome of the harsh but necessary commander.

The Mog comes mewling in, crying out for succor; and the Captain forgets all about his duties in favour of petting the creature until it calms, and purrs against his heart.

So much for the Captain, then.

*****

“You look unbearably smug this morning,” the Herald remarks, handing the Student a plate of twice-baked biscuit softened in parrot confit. “Don’t say anything, or you’ll only make it worse.”

The Student drops down across the table with his latest journal of the periodicals. “I’ve sorted out our little engineering problem. A good night’s work, I’d say.”

“What?”

“The Spy. Haven’t you noticed the way he’s been looking lately? Smacking his lips at the Crewmember, scoffing the charcoal, all that sort of thing?”

"You’re reading too much into it. He’ll make it through that phase, Seekers always do. If necessary I’ll take him with me to Whither-”

“No need. He wanted well-water. I gave it to him.”

The Herald ignores him at first, deliberately; then, when he doesn’t follow up, frowns. Studies him with equal parts fear and exasperation and takes one quick gasp, as though breath is water for a man dying of thirst. “Not- not literally?”

“In the well, yes. I don’t think the Sisters will mind, given what else is in there.”

“You put him in a well- Student, don’t you understand the first thing about Seeking?  _He’ll come back_!”

Her rising cry is interrupted by the Spy’s entrance. Dripping wet, with torn and mangled clothing. His smile is quite fierce.

Calmly, he appropriates both their plates and starts devouring the contents without the nicety of utensils.

“I thought you’d be dead,” the Student manages, eventually. Not speaking seems worse.

The Spy’s eyes glint with amusement. “Maybe it would have worked, if you’d picked the right well.“

“There was supposed to be a monstrous thing down there, with tentacles twice a man’s size. I thought that’d do the job- was it even there, or was it only ever moonlight?”

“Got hungry,” the Spy says laconically. “Ate it. Next question?”

“Doom,” the Herald blurts out.

“Not really a question, but I’ll write that off as force of habit. C’mon,” he says indistinctly, through a mouthful of biscuit. “What would you be doing next if you’re me?”

“Kill me. Preferably in a merciful and blessedly painless fashion,” the Student ventures.

“Good idea,” the Spy says. “But I need seven betrayals, and you’re on the list. What else would I be doing?”

“Continuing with your study of the Correspondence,” the Herald says. “Teasing out the deep interconnections of the lore, piecing together riddles, finding scraps and clues-”

“Too slow. I want to go home,” he says, sucking grease off his fingers. “I’ve had enough of the Neath. I want to go back to my own time, and my own place and my own laws of physics, and if I have to kick up an almighty fuss in order to get there, so be it. This Seeking business is forbidden knowledge, right? Worst taboo in the Neath? If I get far enough along, somebody is gonna have to offer me a bribe to stop- and I know just what I’m going to ask for.”

“Suppose nobody knows how to get you home,” the Herald says.

“Tough,” the Spy says. “In that case, I guess we’ll get to see what exactly it is that Mr Eaten wants. Wanna bet how apocalyptic that’s gonna be?”

“It can’t possibly work,” the Student says, resurrecting a scrap of his usual confidence. “The Masters will stop you. The Bazaar will stop you. The entire Neath’s agreed that there’s nothing worse than a Seeker, you’l be stopped long before you make any headway.”

“In which case, there’s nothing for you to worry about,” the Spy says. “So cheer up. I’ve got plans.”

The Student quivers away from him, tries to exchange a glance with the Herald-  _he’s mad, isn’t it? How do we stop him?_

But she’s looking on in fascination, like a rat confronted by an oncoming train. Bloody impractical haruspices.

“Of course, I’ll need a ship to get started. So, I guess our Captain’s going to be first on the list…”


	3. suits: absent, balance, devastation, clear

When they open the door to the Captain’s cabin, it’s empty.

Nowhere in the hold, nowhere on deck. Nowhere on the ship to all appearances. The Crewmember shivers as they search, and talks of salvage rights in a way calculated to soothe their tempestuous engineer; the Seeker seems to have been expecting just such a desertion.

“Everybody leaves,” he says savagely, over and over again; and the Student barely holds himself back from asking what half-forgotten Surface neurosis could induce a reaction so irrational. Captains don’t abandon their ships at Zee, not until they’re so badly holed that the smokestacks are level with the waterline. Clearly their irrigo addict is hanging about the place somewhere.

At least, the Student reckons as much. Until, upon meticulously disarraying a pile of cushions in the wardroom for the fourth time that day, he catches sight of the mirror. Not a thing he likes to look at, normally; catching even a glimpse of his reflection disorientates him inexplicably and unpleasantly, and he hasn’t time today for an hour or two’s serene perusal of logarithmic tables as counterweight. But it’s not him he’s looking at, this time; it’s the Captain. Standing by the mirror— no, inside it! Holding his cat and grinning a Cheshire.

“Oh. You’re taken to Parabola, then? Tricky to manage, but I suppose that makes sense-“

A creak at the door: the Captain winks and vanishes.

“There you are,” the Herald says impatiently. “Come along. We need to talk strategy.”

“Kill him and have done,” the Crewmember hisses behind her. “Or else leave him be. I can’t see sense in talking about it.”

The Student considers leaving them to it, also considers the annoyance of being left out of this conversation. “Yes, all right. Whose cabin?”

“Mine,” the Herald says. “The warding’s better, for a start.”

She’s not joking about that; it takes her a solid quarter of an hour to murmur all her runes, sealing the place with lock and rite. The Crewmember fidgets, pawing at pretty objects worth more than them and a dozen of their fellows. The Student appropriates a Grecian grammar and settles down to wait, without quite as much attention for the text as he normally would lavish.

“All right, doomsayer. What’s your considered opinion?” he asks, when she shows signs of winding down.

“Fascination. He might do it.”

“Bosh.”

“Especially if we help him,” the Herald says. “And I confess, it’s mightily tempting. From a professional point of view, the technical implications of such a rite would keep haruspices busy for centuries. An intellectual challenge for you, Student ours.”

“Nobody’s ever done it,” the Crewmember sulks. “Nobody’s ever going to do it. We’ll all rot and die together down this course, is how I see it.”

“And as for you, Crewmember, consider this. Seekers amass and surrender fortunes, before they’re through with their temptations. Suppose you were in for a share of that? Might as well be you to inherit as anyone else.”

“Not much good to me if I’m dead, starved, and cursed by every Master in London, is it?” they say, though there’s a glitter of greed in their eyes now. “There’s no way this ends well for us. If I weren’t sworn to this ship— if somebody didn’t have to maintain a zailor’s honour, when the Captain himself has gone and fled, I’d be packing for the lifeboat right now.”

The Student studies them in confusion. “Are the pair of you quite certain you haven’t swapped motives, perchance?”

The Herald snorts. The Crewmember throws a cushion at him.

“Quite apart from anything else,” he says, catching the thing inexpertly (expensive crushed velvet, Surface by the smell of it). “I dislike the idea of starving to death at Zee. They say the consequences are considerably more lethal out here.”

“I have that under control,” the Herald says comfortably. “Challenged him to make a lock for the provisions locker so clever, even he wouldn’t be able to undo it without the key. He’s busy on that for the moment.”

“That won’t work. He’ll think of a way to break the door down, instead. Or dynamite it, or—I don’t know. If there’s one thing our engineer’s demonstrated, it’s an inexhaustible capacity for making bricks without straw.”

“Of course it won’t work,” the Herald agrees. “But the process of trying to create a suitable trap will keep him pleasantly occupied until we reach London again. I trust nobody objects to our turning back this time, no? Right. And then we’ll start off again on sounder footing.”

“There’s something everyone seems to be forgetting here,” the Student remarks (rather more sullenly than he’d intended it to sound). “This is my ship, remember? Bought and paid for? I didn’t lay down all those echoes to go chasing across the Unterzee on somebody else’s quest. Especially someone with justifiable reason for wanting my head.”

“I once heard of a Seeker,” the Herald says, dropping her voice, “who burnt seventy-seven enigmas in one night. Vainly. But seventy-seven enigmas, just for the wasting! Nobody’s ever discovered the secret of their rites, but they must have one not known to the Neath at large, to accumulate such stockpiles.”

“…damn you,” the Student says, and is still.

“There remains,” the Crewmember says, distinctly weary, “the threat that we’ll all wake up one morning and find the engineer’s acquired a taste for long pig. And then what price all your plans, eh?”

“Well, you’ll go first,” the Herald says calmly. “Isn’t that the sort of risk you signed up for?”

“Not that one! There’s no coming back from that death, t’aint a safe running— bother all that,” the Crewmember says, quite abruptly. “Too easy to mouth off, when I’m the only crew here. But you’d have to break in another zailor after that, believe you me.”

They’re breathing hard now, and the Student finds himself starting at them as he’s never done before: not when they’d been introduced, certainly not in the course of their duties, nor even in the midst of a few wondering, experimental fumbles. A persona, deep and unmistakeable as marshwater, beneath that purple zailor’s rig— and then, of course, it’s all gone. Just the Anonymous Crewmember again.

“Do I know you?” he asks.

“Not if I can help it,” they mutter.

Despite everything— despite the threats, and the fears, the hunger in waiting for them and the intolerable horror of the situation, the Student finds himself curious.

As ever, then. 


	4. the price, the price, the price...

“D’you want to finish these?” the Seeker asks, shoving over a half-filled serving platter.  

The Herald stares at him. Thin, perfect pancakes fried in Beloved butter are one of the Spy’s pet vices; normally he could devour a pile like this happily enough without any further enticement to appetite. Sharing meals with a Seeker was bound to prove an unsettling experience, but she hadn’t anticipated this. “You must still be hungry.”

“Sure. But what kind of hunger, huh? If your mysticism could tell me that, we might be on to something.”

“What- what kind? You’re unaccountably peckish, what more do you need to know?”

“Oh, everything? Now in my time, we’ve identified a wasting sickness, when the body starts craving and rejecting sugar, and if you take too much at once you’ll go blind. Then there’s quite a different kind of wasting that comes from simple starvation, when you start going into shock- that one’s best treated with warm milk, plenty of rest and coddling. Or it might be like altitude sickness, when hunger comes from atmospheric conditions, and a healthy man needs twice as much food just to keep up with the demand. Now I ask you, which one of these is Seeking like? Bet you can’t tell me.”

“…I suppose that if Seeking had been a matter of broken limbs, you’d be talking my ear off about your expertise in splints and the proper construction of casts, instead.”

“Jack of all trades, master of none,” he says, with considerably more irony than the aphorism requires. “I know the names for some of these things, but I haven’t the learning to diagnose myself properly. So in the absence of decent medical expertise, I’ll stick to what my own good horse sense is telling me- which is to stay temperament and moderate. And not to try eating more than twenty flapjacks at a sitting.”

“An untutored discipline, but it might well prove functional,” the Herald remarks, adding syrup of figs to the pile. ”You have litany, a focus– fear’s a very helpful motivator in these matters. I suppose this ritual might work for you.”

“It’s not my fault if your mumbo-jumbo happens to match up with my science. Pure accident, I swear.”

“Mmm,” the Herald says, pushing a fork into the pancakes. His eyes are calm, cow-brown; all the recent tenseness faded to hazy memory. “Now that does sound like our Innocent.”

The naming does him all the good she’d expected; he smiles in genuine pleasure. “Thank you.”

“No trouble.”

She take a bite of the sweet, fragrant cakes, watching her companion with interest. He averts his gaze, flushing with embarrassment as his gut rumbles at a volume that’d do credit to one of his own engines.

“Then again, I sincerely doubt I could finish this all off myself. If you’d care to go halves–”

“Done.” He polishes it off in minutes.

Still, the Herald considers. Not a bad attempt all things considered.

********

“This isn’t the proper order of things,” the Student argues petulantly, as they drift into Wolfstack. “There’s a hierarchy aboard a ship, and however you want to arrange it, I think we can all agree the Crewmember’s at the bottom.”

“Are you volunteering for the position?” the Spy asks him. “Keeping in mind that the Captain is going to be who I tap first to accompany me for dangerous stunts. Of which there’s going to be a fair number.”

“But I still don’t know why you’re asking me, sir,” the Crewmember says.

“I figure it this way,” the Innocent says, easily. “You have more zailing experience than anybody else on board, that makes you the most qualified for the job. Simple. Plus we’re going to need to hire another zailor, and frankly, I wouldn’t trust anybody else on board to act as a superior. You’ll be hard on them, but at least you’ll remember what it’s like from the other side.”

“Fair enough. But going straight from crew to a ship of my own…I’m almost wondering if I’ll have the skills.”

“Almost butters no parsnips.”

They grin. “You’re right there.”

“So, I drew up a little contract,” the Spy says. “Hiring you on the same terms as our last one had- I noticed his business sense never suffered much, however fuzzy-minded he could be. Check it over. Ask the Herald or the Student about it if you don’t trust me, don’t rush. If you’d decide that you’d rather leave now, I’ll have you paid off at a good rate, no hard feelings either side.”

“No, no. Ship’s honour.” They take very little time over the perusal. “I’ve seen a few of these before, and this is fair enough. Why’s the name included, though?”

“I like names. I liked mine- I’d like to know yours. Take it or leave it, but you can understand that my mind’s been on that subject rather a lot lately.”

“There is that,” the Crewmember mutters, fiddling with the pen.

“Not an X, thanks. An actual name, please? The true one?”

“Oh, if you insist. But it’s not to go outside this stateroom, that’s the worst sort of luck for Captains.” They scribble something, unintelligibly; the Innocent inspects it and nods approvingly.

“And this was your right name, then? You’ll swear to that?” he asks, holding out their old captain’s brightly feathered hat of office.

“Right.”

“Fine,” the Spy says, very gently. “Hullo, Alice.”

His voice hasn’t changed a tittle; the contract has neither changed colour nor caught fire; the hat remains a hat. The Student can’t recognise for a moment, what’s changed about the scene.

Nor probably would, if the Crewmember hadn’t started to shriek so, crumpling downwards in an unaesthetic mess. Smudges of irrigo smear off their smock, puddling across the deck. The Spy watches in silence, the Herald with zest; and since neither of them seem inclined to move a finger, the Student kneels down to offer a comforting hand.  

Very light in his own, and young; his own age, give or take a year. He wonders how he’s never observed the shimmering, gentle black of those eyes before, dark as the peligin waves.

“Ought to have known not to go monkeying with fake names. A particular, oh lor'- and of all, this bloody particular- oh, damn all Seekers anyhow,” their Captain whispers, voice tailing off into a choke.

“That is not a naming rite that I’ve ever seen before,” the Herald comments. “Effective, but surely improvised.”

“Side piece of research, when I was trying to figure out how to get my own name back,” the Spy says. “I did warn her, you all witnessed that.”

“Not her,” the Student says, every bit of his innate stubbornness rushing to the fore. “They. Still.”

And he carries them off, in his arms.

“One betrayal down, six to go,” the Spy says. “I wonder if they’ll all go that smoothly.”

He hums and starts sketching Correspondence notes again, and it takes a certain amount of time before the Herald can bring herself to ask. 

“Why so familiar?”

“The Great Game, remember? Runs just as hard and fierce up there as it ever has down here- worse if you ask me, with true deaths to set the pace. The friend who couldn’t meet me for a cup of tea without lying through his teeth, the assassin who tried to love and stab me in the same breath, the child who died - you might as well ask, is anything else familiar? Because it isn’t. None of it is, except this,” the Spy says, speaking quickly and almost exultantly. “Believe me, I know this. Intimately- and if I’m not much mistaken, that’s the stuff your rituals are made of. The rest is just fancy flim-flam to befuddle the marks.”

“I’m only wondering now, how our naming ever held. Innocent.”

“You’ll tell me, when I need a new one.”

Every mark of a ship’s natural leader in his voice. Their new Captain will have her work cut out for her, the Herald thinks.

(And makes a mental note never to be caught out the same way, herself.)


	5. comes the reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To recap for anyone coming in cold: the Innocent Spy's Great Game handler on the Surface is named Pete, and the two of them work for the Phoenix Foundation. Also, the Spy has previous with a remarkably resilient assassin who enjoyed stalking him, about ninety years in the future. 
> 
> Unlike certain Doctors, the Spy does not enjoy having a nemesis; but the dynamic between the two of them is otherwise quite similar.

What Alice needs- no, that's not right. (Not least because they've threatened to knock out anybody who calls them by that name, especially in front of other people.) What their Captain needs, the Student is convinced, is to get back out to Zee as soon as possible. For all their jokes about enjoying shore leave as much as the next zailor, they've always been happier and calmer out on the water. Better behaved, too. 

The trouble is, the ship can't leave until a few little items are sorted out. Restocking the  _Clipper_ is normally the work of a day or two, but the Spy's insisted on proper Surface provisions this time, so the orders are taking longer than usual. Then there's hiring their new crew, which is proving very awkward. Everyone else in the company has agreed they can't possibly hire someone who'll run off shrieking at the Spy's Seeking, which is making it impossible to find anybody at all. 

"Why don't we just shanghai someone and have done with? Like they used to back on the Surface," the Student suggests. 

"No point paying a sign-up bonus if they desert in Naples," the Herald says, rather fatigued. "There must be someone in London who'll tolerate this, it's just a matter of finding them."

"Be a jolly short commission if I can't find any crew," the Captain mutters. "If we can't zail, do you think that'll void out my contract?"

"No. You'll have more luck helping him along," the Herald says. "Help him complete the task that you're contracted to do, and you might find yourself safely anonymous again by the end of it. Or not," she adds hastily, observing the Captain's frantic hopefulness. "No promises. I only mention it as a possibility."

"Or we could just go without any crew, couldn't we?" the Student offers. 

"Are you going to start helping out with the manual labour?" the Captain inquires. "Since that sort of thing's beneath me now, you know. Lugging about the coal and trash and whathaveyou."

"Ah- I'd rather not. If it's all the same."

"Thought not." A moment of light amusement for them. The Student's sufficiently pleased to see it that he bites down half a dozen easy comebacks. 

"Next!" the Captain shouts; and the wardroom door opens, to receive the last candidate. 

Not a bad substitute from the point of anonymity, the Student reckons. The fellow's scarred a trifle but not outrageously, with an unremarkable accent and dark murderer's clothing. How dull. 

"Your name?" the Herald inquires (she likes interrogating people, so they've left most of the actual interviewing up to her.)

"The Unimaginative Assassin. Lost a bet, I'm afraid- and these things do seem to stick."

"One a penny, two a penny," the Student mutters to himself, and ups his mental estimate to exceedingly dull. Probably just the candidate for the job, then. He listens to the Herald's carefully phrased speech (cryptic to the uninitiate, frighteningly terse to the well-travelled zailor) and the inane replies with dozy boredom. 

"...and this Seeker's on board now? May I see him? Privately, if you don't mind."

This is rather farther than they've got with anyone else so far. "Next door in the galley. As you might expect."

In he goes, shutting the door tight. Wordlessly, the Captain uncovers a speaking tube; the three of them gather around it eagerly. 

"...oh. It's you. I bet I get this now. I bet I get everything now." The Spy sounds languid, almost sleepy. 

 "You do?" the newcomer drawls.

"Uh-huh! No Neath, is that it? No crazy underground ocean, no immortality mountain or anything, I'm just still plump in the middle of that mental breakdown- that has got to be it. You really are dead this time, and I'm just blithering my brains out in the Alaskan backwoods. Probably dying of hypothermia in a blizzard, or something."

"I hate to interrupt such a magnificent stroke of fantasy, my dear Innocent, but I'm not dead. And you can understand how that is now, can't you? A zesty cup of cider- of course, I had less trouble acquiring it than most people. Arbitrage between one century and another presents such wonderful opportunities."

"Maybe if I ignore you, you'll go away. Maybe I should have tried that every time," the Spy growls. The Student shivers, almost knocking over the trumpet; the others glare at him. 

"Maybe, you ought to have tried that before jumping down a rabbit hole in search of me. Oh, don't look at me like that, I thought it was a very romantic gesture on your part."

"Romantic gesture? What the hell are you talking about? I came here because Pete asked me to check out the Ammukash valley, that's all."

"...he left out my note? The lilacs? The lovingly hand-drawn map of the Neath I mailed to Phoenix, with your name written out in gold letters?"

Without being able to see the man, it's irritatingly difficult to guess whether the next sound is a whimper or a giggle; but the Spy recovers himself quickly enough. "Bless Pete, he figured I didn't need any of your stalker rubbish. No. I didn't have a clue you were involved with this, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Is this how you survived falling off a mountain and everything? The fire? The boiling vat of oil, gods help me?"

"Naturally. It makes my profession so much simpler, not having to fret over the small details."

"...right. Okay, so you set this up. Leaned back and watched my struggle my way across the Neath, probably laughing up your sleeve the whole time- what's the takeaway, huh? What do you get out of this?"

"Pure goodness of heart, Innocent mine. Do you have any idea how painful I've found watching your troubles, these last few years? On the cusp of fifty, too worn and tired to keep up with the Game any longer. Resigning yourself to rewiring the Phoenix computer lab and volunteering at your precious Challengers Club, instead of being out in the field where you belong. And as for what you did to your hair! Sheer unmitigated bathos." 

"A lot of that was your fault. You got me so paranoid. So uncertain...I couldn't trust myself anymore, that's why I took the sabbatical."

"Yes, yes. A year alone, recuperating in an Alaskan cabin with no amenities- I thought it'd be good practice for you. Moving to the nineteenth century would be a step up, comfort wise."

"You manipulated me into that? What in my life has even been mine, since you came into it?"

"Oh, calm down, it's hardly as if you needed much persuasion to play at pioneers. I knew you've always had a fondness for this time period. And everything you've done since arriving, that's all on you. Hitchhiking across the Neath. Setting yourself up as engineer, taking up Seeking- you know, that one has surprised me. Not quite in line with the carefree spy I remember, but I'll take it-"

"Why won't you call me by my name?" he interrupts. 

"My dear Innocent, you know as well as I do that simply isn't done. Not in public, not between enemies. Only for the most intimate of pairings." 

This time the laugh's unmistakeable, if short and harsh. "That's what it always boils down to with you, isn't it? You give me my name back, if I give you...me."

"Oh, you'll make a superb dollymop. Like everything else you turn your hand to- oh, come. You want me, you always did, and this time there's nothing to hold you back. No disapproving onlookers, no Great Game to think of, no friends to tut over your morals. Here I am. Have at me."

"Will you take me home, afterwards?"

The Student exchanges looks with the Captain; Neath or no, they are both English enough to be embarrassed by that sheer desperation, the unspeakably raw emotion of that homesickness. Embarrassment is something the Herald doesn't wholly understand, or she couldn't shout her doom litanies with such abandon. 

"I think we've heard enough," they say, putting the trumpet away. "Either we have our new crew or the two of them will try to kill each other next, but either way I doubt there's use worrying about that any longer. Might as well get on with what else we have to do."

"Might as well," the Student agrees. The Herald grunts a noncommittal noise, looking rather put out. 

None of the three of them actually move. 

About three minutes later, a scream cuts the air. They tumble into the galley in mere moments. 

The Assassin lies on the floor, shirtless; he clutches the cloth to his shoulder, staunching dark rivulets of blood. The Spy watches him from atop the table, where he rests with the ready stillness of a cat on the hunt. 

"All right, what's happening?" the Captain demands (the Student is very proud of them, for sounding so authoritative.) "At least get off my ship if you're dueling, London's got places for this."

"He bit me!" the Assassin wails. "A perfectly reasonable conversation, and your Seeker goes and bites me!"

"They do tend to do that," the Herald informs him, exceptionally dry even by her standards. "Particularly when mealtimes come round. Innocent, are you all right?"

The Spy runs a finger across his lips, studies the result, licks it clean. "Oh, sure. Not even hungry."

The resulting silence is oppressive as false-summer in Spite; the Student hastens to break it. "So are we hiring this man, or not?"

"I think so. I wouldn't want him running across the Neath unsupervised - you did remember to listen in, right? Only it'd be a bore explaining the whole thing again."

"We were," the Captain says, over the Assassin's small yelp. "Up until the last few minutes, at least. Well, one Docker's as good as another."

"Right. Ah- do you want to fill in his name on the contract? His name's Murdoc."

"It is not," the Assassin sulks, binding his wound tight. (None of them have moved to help him, not that he seems to expect assistance.) 

"In all the ways that matter," the Spy says, smiling at him. "So it ought to work. If we have your name, we can write out a legally binding contract whether you've signed it or not."

"I would have signed it anyway!"

"But that's not the point, is it? Cheer up. See, I am getting the hang of this place."

The Student struggles to recall anything in his vocabulary to express that precise mixture of longing and lust, appetite and unmitigated fear, that crosses the Assassin's face at this point.

It may, he decides, require an entirely new word. 


	6. as above, so below

"Your goat told you about us," the Student repeats, incredulously. 

"The goat kept tabs on the Spy for me, yes," the Assassin agrees, pulling the last few nails out of a crate. Something inside it shakes, moving the whole thing a good six inches along the deck. "I mean, this isn't just any workaday, mushroom-browsing, Shepherd Isles ruminant. This," he says, whipping out the last nail and leaning well back, "is a Heptagoat. Say hullo to everybody."

The Heptagoat rears, bellowing a demonic cry. Its hooves leave dents in the deck; the stench of its breath is amorous and revolting at once. 

"It's named Spot," the Assassin adds helpfully. "I thought that was the sort of name the Spy would appreciate."

"We have to live with this thing?" They cannot possibly, the Student thinks. No steamer would survive it.

"I would have mentioned owning one, if anybody had thought of asking. Something of a problem for you people, isn't it?"

"Not really," the Spy says indifferently. "Just means a little more reinforcement for your cabin, that's all. I'll have some girders installed. No taking it for walks."

"I was going to offer you that cabin," the Captain says. "As an officer..."

"Aw. Thanks, but no, I'm happy with my berth. And this'll give me a little more time to get my pet project underway. I've been having such fun working out the details for that..."

"Let me guess," the Student suggests. "A new engine?" 

********

"A telegraph cable," the Spy says to the Fierce Philanthropist, six weeks later. "Honestly, I was surprised that London didn't have one to Port Carnelian already- up on the Surface, they've had that technology for years. Even before the Fall. The way technology regresses in the Neath is very odd."

"Instant communication between here and there," the Philanthropist muses. "I wonder whether it'd be more valuable as a monopoly or for general hire- but you know the basic problem with anything like this, is the Unterzee treaty. An anonymous zub can always be denied, but a cable such as you're describing, that'll attract attention."

"Ah. I had a word with Baseborn and Fowlingpiece when we were in London, asked them to check over the language very carefully- it only states that signatories are forbidden to explore down there. Nothing about dropping things into the Zee, so we're in the clear there."

Her eyes gleam, with bright excited fascination. They really were having it off, the Student reckons; he can see trouble brewing there. All her charms and thoughtfulness (and quite a bit of wealth), stacked up against one rogue assassin who the Spy doesn't even seem to like...

then there's a vicious little growl, a sound entirely inappropriate for this elegant drawing room, and he wonders whether civilisation will win out after all. 

"Sorry," the Spy apologises. "Missed lunch, I guess I'm hungrier than I thought."

(He had three helpings of a thick shark-fin stew; but Philanthropist or no, they are not telling her about his Seeking. It wouldn't go well.)

"Have some more cake," the Philanthropist says impatiently. "All right, the legality of it is arguable, that's good enough for now. What about the technical side of things, what do we need to manufacture it?"

"Ah, that's the rub. Materials are simple enough, but we need something guaranteed not to fail, since we won't be able to fish it back up again for repairs. That would void the treaty, you see- so it'll have to be ratwork, nobody else is precise enough. Triple-checked ratwork, at that."

"They're easily hired. Not so much here, but we could perhaps manufacture it in London."

"I mean, a lot of rats," the Spy says darkly. "About equivalent to London's entire population of same, if you want it done in anything less than an astronomical timeframe."

"That's quite a proposition."

The Student is about to ask why, for false-stars' sake, don't they just buy a cable up on the Surface instead of manufacturing one at tremendous expense and difficulty down here; but he restrains himself. He's only here to make the Spy's excuses, should the engineer happen to faint during the proceedings (that, and ask a single question of his own). There are good reasons for playing matters just so, the Spy's said. 

"But I had an idea about that!" All of the Innocent's enthusiasm coming to the fore now. "Ever heard of Pigmote Island? Cute little place up by the Snares, they just concluded a civil war. Half rat, half guinea pig population, and they're looking for sponsorship and protection. Now what I figure is, this is Port Carnelian's chance to have a foothold of its own out on the Unterzee- that's something London hasn't been too keen to give you, isn't it? Imagine the possibilities. Let the word get out that Pigmote will offer safe haven and work for any rat, encourage them with a good solid advance, they'll be happy to work out this cable for us. It'll be well worth the price."

"Then we're not just talking about me," the Philanthropist says. "You're looking to tap into loyalties that aren't recorded, down at the Governor's offices. Officially non-existent loyalties."

"The Governor's always a Londoner, and they're always replaced in a season or so," the Spy says. "Don't tell me there's no jati network of locals to keep this place running. If you aren't in it yourself, you'd at least know who to ask."

"We're crawling with intelligence networks, down here. Word will get around."

"You want word to get around. London can't object overly much to the building of a cable- they'll probably welcome a way to keep closer tabs on you- and you can cover for everything else with that as an excuse. Hiring rats, advertising in London for them - the more complicated and busy the project sounds, the better reason for having plenty of back and forth between here and there."

"And you'll help build it, I've no doubt."

"Right in the thick of it," the Spy promises her, taking her hand. With the sort of damply vacant expression that would resolve in a kiss if he wasn't there, the Student thinks. "Describing the points of a quadrilateral- Vienna to pick up supplies, London to get the rats, Pigmote to drop everything off. And then back here to keep you informed. The upfront costs are going to pile up, there's no doubt about that, but you'll stand to gain a lot if we pull it all off."

"The best sort of gambles are always like that. I'm going to have to leave, presently," the Philanthropist says. "Social functions. But my evening's free- shall we talk about this more over dinner? Without you," she adds to the Student, in a magnificently dismissive gesture. 

"I don't know. He's been running himself ragged lately, I don't feel very comfortable about leaving him alone. Collapsed yesterday, you know."

"Then I shall be gentle with him. Don't look so worried, Student. We're not quite barbarian here, backwater or no."

The Spy waves a hand -  _calm down, I have this under control-_ so there's not much to be done. The Student forces a smile. "All right. But you'll let us know if he's...ill, or anything."

"Of course. I must go- stay as long as you like, enjoy the tea." She sweeps up her skirts and goes, eyeing the Spy with roguish enthusiasm. 

"Thank god that's over," the Spy mumbles, grabbing up the whole dense cake in his hands. "Y'know, I really need to ask her what goes into this fruitcake. Best meal I've had since we quit London."

"Most of it would be home-grown fare, I expect- except the cherries. Those are traditionally imported from Irem."

"Irem. Dreamstuff, you mean? Can't see how that'd quiet anyone's appetite."

"Don't knock it, it's where cider apples grow. Innocent, are you actually planning to go ahead with all this? Because I can't figure how any of your espionage shenanigans will fit in with Seeking."

"If I have a hammer," the Spy says, grinning unaccountably, "Or a bell. Never mind- the point is, Seeking's horribly expensive, we can't afford it, we know somebody who does. You know where spies have traditionally always hidden their operating expenses? Government cost overruns. So if there isn't an appropriate project to bury mine in, why, I figured I'd just have to invent one-"

"I regret asking. Next time a question of mine will lead to a rendition of falsified accounting practices, forget I asked it. But have you considered what the effect on London is going to be once you've established this- rat haven?"

"Same thing that happens to any state that hounds a group of people into exile- the place that accepts them gets the advantage of all those motivated refugees, and leaves the old place increasingly behind the times. Serves 'em right."

"A lot of commoners are going to get very hungry."

"So?" the Seeker asks. "It shouldn't take twentieth-century morals to realise that eating sentient rats is a crime- not that I haven't wondered what it'd be like to try one," he adds, a little dreamily. "Crunchy, probably. Like potato chips, I bet they're very moreish-"

The Student slaps him. He looks startled, but subsides. 

"I never had a chance to ask her my question."

"I'll make sure you do, before we zail. Make sure she's in a good mood for you and everything."

"The fact that you happen to look only a few years older than I do, does not mean I wish to contemplate your love life," the Student gets out, as flatly as possible. Casual teasing was possible before, but not now he's a Seeker- surely there would be blood, tears, alarming appetites. "What'd you say?"

"I said, how are you and Alice carrying on? Are you carrying on?"

"No," the Student says, mustering a great deal of dignity. "They're very busy with their new position, I'm still very busy sorting through your Arthurian scrolls- where did you come by them, anyway? I've never seen such an absolute mess."

"Jati. White speech. You know how it is, somebody probably dropped them on the way to market."

"I'd kill for an index. Or better, a concordance..."

********

"Be brief, please," the Philanthropist says. "What was your question?"

"Quite a while ago," the Student says, and wonders why he falters. "You said that you'd convert the _Clipper_ to a zub, because of my relations. But I haven't any. As thoroughgoing an orphan as you could find in London, I can promise you that."

"Oh, is that all? I said a connexion, not a relative- point of fact, they were some Rubberies who helped out with the designs. And they asked, if you ever dropped by this way, to do you a good turn- and I was more than happy to do that."

"Rubberies? I can't think what interest they might have in me."

"I won't ask," the Philanthropist assures him. "Your enhancement or whatever it is- believe me, I don't wish to know- but it's safe knowledge with me. I'll keep that little secret, just as I won't mention about his Seeking."

"You know about that? How?"

"He's always had a good many scars," the Philanthropist says. "But they never used to weep. Now, I've had a word with the harbour provisioners, they've promised to keep a good supply of cake on hand for every time you visit..."

It's her sheer matter-of-factness that annoys him, the Student decides. And her assumptions. He certainly does not have any tentacles, peculiar or otherwise. 

But what's the Rubbery interest in him, anyway?


	7. sing, and his name will be in the mouths of the gods

Six months on, the Student’s almost forgotten that perplexing little conundrum.

The  _Clipper’s_ new routine is much the same as their sunlight-smuggling run, only better; no fear of being caught out by the Ministry, all the supplies they could possibly want, pleasant ports and passages. Curious rats to argue with. No end of rich, substantial meals, to the point that he occasionally has to beg off and lunch on fungal crackers for fear of indigestion. The Innocent’s even managed to put on a bit of weight, which just seems perverse.

As good an environment as any for their Captain to get to grips with running a ship- and, after all, they were almost doing the job anyhow. The Herald has the lore, either in books or in her head; the Spy is just as competent at engineering as he ever was, and his improvements are so thoroughgoing, the ship can all but zail herself. They’re already talking about the possibilities of an upgrade, one of these days; a hauler, maybe. Or a dreadnaught.

“When I’m gone,” the Spy tells them, quite dispassionately. “When I’m gone through that gate, North- you’ll be able to have your pick of ships after that. But not while I’m still here. This ship’s more of a home to me than anywhere I’ve been since childhood.”

“I thought you would like it,” the Assassin says, pleased.

Still boring. He jumps to attention whenever the Spy’s around, slacks off and is coolly insubordinate the rest of the time. Sickly, too, and inclined to thick bandages like the Tomb Colonists favour, which oughn’t to be necessary for a cider drinker. Unless somebody was reinflicting the wounds every day, but the Student doesn’t care to ponder that one too hard.

“Eh. Could be worse. So this is my roadmap?” the Spy asks, eying the Student’s work somewhat askance. For somebody with dreadful handwriting, he certainly does quibble about everyone else’s.

“That’s it, yes. You’ve done as much as you can in London, the next step is going to be Winking Isle. Parabolan waters, and you’ll have to make that trip alone. After that, the Chapel of Lights, a trip down South- now, I can’t imagine how you’ll get the  _Clipper_ down there. Seven candles. And the final voyage North.”

“…but the first step is the dreams, huh? I think I can handle that.”

Next morning, the Spy wakes the Student up at sixth-whistle. Outrageous. “Find me another way!”

“Wha- sorry?” He wades through the chaos on the floor- books, charts, scrolls, empty honey-cake boxes. “What?”

“I’m ordering you to find me another way,” the Spy says indignantly. “Winking Isle won’t work. I’d have to give up things I’m not willing to part with.”

“Buy it again later.”

“This one’s irreplaceable. I’m not giving it up for anything- so I want to know what else I can do. You’re the one who’s been correlating data in your cabin for months, there must be another way you can think of.”

The Student groans. “Coffee first. You can’t expect me to think at an hour like this without coffee.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Sometimes he’ll apologise and sound just like himself again. He brews the coffee, collects some fresh scones, butters everything and fixes up a tray for the sleepy Student. Thoughtful.

Still waiting, though, very impatiently.

“Okay,” the Student says, once properly caffeinated. “There’s another way to do it. It’s stupid. It’s unbelievably expensive- you could probably buy Port Carnelian for what it’ll cost. But if you want to get this done without any dreaming, I think it’s the only way.”

“Go on.”

“Right. Ah- a quick primer on the Bazaar. It’s not a Judgment, but it’s as close as you’re going to get to one in the Neath, give or take a Dawn Machine. Consequently, it holds certain powers relating to light, and consequently time-”

“Whoa, whoa. Hang on. What does light have to do with time?”

“It’s a basic universal constant, even down here,” the Student says impatiently. “That’s elementary luxology. A day exists because the Judgments tell it to exist, a night happens because the Judgement’s hanger-ons reflect as much.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. If you had a vacuum, an empty black box with no light in it, time would still pass inside of it.”

“Actually,” the Student says, warming to his subject now. “That’s a very interesting thought experiment, and one I’ve heard the Revolutionaries are trying to prove one way or another. The Magdeburg test, I think that’s what it was called…but the point is, a unit of light is a unit of time.”

“By that logic, forcefeeding people light ought to make them age instantly. Or turn into babies.”

“Maybe so, if we had fresh Judgmental light to test with. The point is, the Bazaar can meddle with light, and therefore time. Not a lot, mostly party tricks, but one of those uses is charity auctions at the Shuttered Palace. People bid for a collection of curiosities, somebody gets the prize, shows off what it actually is…and then, if other people find they desperately want it too, they can lay down a mindbubbling quantity of money to rewind the auction, and bid higher to get the object this time. The interesting thing about this is, at the end of the second auction the object’s actually duplicated. We’ve got two interns at the university who do nothing but sit at the auctions all day taking notes.”

“I thought the Phoenix dangerous assignment raffles were ridiculous. Those were downright sane by comparison.”

“The Empress isn’t known for her logical faculties, whatever other qualities she has, so her court doesn’t fuss about it too much either. Point is, the auctioneers have records for every auction since the Fall, so you could theoretically keep doing this forever if you had endless money and time. Now here’s the bit you want to know: about twenty years ago, a Seeker went mad and decided to eat every single type of object in London, very methodically, just to see if anything would help with his quest. He was sent to the Tomb Colonies after the Constables caught him trying to eat the Palace weathercock, but he did mark down that one object was useful. An ear, apparently. Fell off the roof or something.”

“So this is your brilliant suggestion. Buy a twenty-year old ear, thirty times over, for an exponentially increasing sum of cash every time. And then have an ear ragout, I suppose?”

“I’d go for a stew,” the Assassin says, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Give the cartilage time to break down.”

“How long have you been hiding there?” the Spy demands. “What’s wrong with you?”

“May I remind you that sneaking around places very quietly is considered a virtue in my profession? Long enough, that’s all. Don’t mind me, I’ll just skulk here in the background.”

“Okay,” the Spy says, pressing his hands against his temples; he looks surprisingly tired now. “But that’s it, Student, right? The rest of the plan will work after that?”

“Definitely. The Scrolls are clear enough, if they’re studied with enough attention.”

“Right. Which means, you’d like to get back to your own work now. Finding enigmas.”

“Yes,” the Student says, trying not to sound put upon. “Yes, I would. Very much.”

“More than anything else in the world?”

“…it depends.”

The Spy frowns at him. “Depends on what?”

It is not entirely out of keeping with the rituals of use-names, that the Student finds himself utterly unable to recall what anyone called him before he was christened Unsettling— but he finds himself wishing very desperately to know what it was, now. There must have been something.

Because a student, a lover of all things scholastic, must perforce be a person willing to surrender everything for knowledge- and he hasn’t the words to describe what else he might be. Someone who likes to sleep beneath hats, and keeps a messy room, and wishes, one day, to apologise to the Captain with an exquisitely abject and sympathetic sonnet- there are these things, which are not defined by his use-name; but they don’t add up to being a person.

If he wasn’t a student, he can’t imagine what else he could be. “Well, I’m not too excited about killing anybody. Especially considering what a disaster I made of it last time.”

“You got off lightly,” the Spy says dismissively. “Besides that. I promise nobody’s going to be hurt.”

“Are you setting up my betrayal?”

“I’m offering you a chance to learn something you ought to know,” the Spy says. “Something about yourself. If we’re quick, we can reach the Carnival before the crowds start.”

“The Carnival? What’s to learn there?”

“There are mirrors,” the Spy says, simply.

That which is unsettling, ought not to itself be unsettled by anything. Especially knowledge.

“I’ll come,” the Student says.

***********

“Which one?” he asks, at the Hall of Mirrors.

“I think you know already. Dream’s Mirror- tell me. When you went mad for all those term papers, you always had a good supply of Memories of Light, didn’t you? Always ended up in the Mirror-Marshes?”

“Revolutionaries can get them quite easily. I’ve never been elsewhere, no.” Every other undergraduate at Summerset: but he’d never understood how they could take it so easily. Going mad, losing the self, swallowed up by one’s own reflection.

“Any particular reason why?”

“I don’t like looking at myself too often,” the Student admits. His eyes are shut, tightly; perhaps if he keeps talking, he can reason his way out of this. “It’s not the most prepossessing body, even I’d have to admit that. Soft, and squishy, and I’m aware I smell somewhat.”

(The Crewmember, back when they had been a Crewmember, had had their own reasons for not wishing to unclothe in front of anybody. They’d been very nicely matched in that respect. And others.)

“Not badly,” the Spy says; he sounds as if he's trying to stifle a laugh. “Citrus, that’s a lovely scent- I don’t think it’s what you say it is. I think that you don’t like it, because you know it isn’t really you.”

“Of course it’s me. Who else-” he says, and stops. If there is an answer to that question, he doesn’t want to know it.

“Open your eyes, Student. You wanted to learn something.”

He wishes his Captain was here, to ward off this annoying Seeker, and take him back to the ship, and give him an exasperating order or two.

Instead, he blinks, and looks. At the green, oozing thing in the mirror, whose slurred tongue is a million miles away from crisp Summerset diction.

“See, I tracked down those Rubberies,” the Spy remarks. “They said you were an experiment. A test to see how human one of them could be, before it lost awareness- and it was a failure. Couldn’t retain a sense of self, couldn’t tell who it was.”

“There is nothing else! That’s a Parabolan nightmare you’re showing me!”

“That’s your true self,” the Spy says. “That’s who you should have been, if they’d been able to bind you to this body- and I found a solution for them. Down in the nightmare carnival,” he says, almost singing. “I talked to a lady and brought her pearls…but before I left, I broke a piece off a mirror. Just like a knife- ought to do the trick, don’t you think?”

“There is no way you could have done that,” the Student says, trying to tear his gaze from the mirror. The Spy is coming up behind him, glittering shard in hand; he must move, he must. “You don’t even have Saint Arthur’s candle yet. There’s no way you could have acquired Beau’s.”

The Spy grips his collar, presses him up against the glass. He can feel its cold against his skin, begging to envelop him, ready to break against him like ice. “Madmen always say they’re being logical. Otherwise you wouldn’t know they’re mad.”

“But I’m not mad! There are rules to these things, you’ve asked me about them yourself!”

The mirror-shard is tickling his heart now, and cowardice rises in his throat like dark bile: only one escape, only one way to escape-

the Spy can’t possibly be meaning this for real-

only, now, there are two inches of glitter sticking out of his chest. Allowing for the way the Spy was holding it, that means three inches of it are inside him.

Cool, crisp logic takes over his brain. On the other side of this mirror is a hospital. They take care of people at hospitals.

The Student ducks into the mirror, and vanishes.

**************

“Where’s my Student?” the Captain shouts. They haven’t been so annoyed since the farrago with the cushion-closet catching fire.

“That is your Student,” the Assassin says, very cross. “I can’t help that he’s green now, that’s the way he looked when the Beth let him out. Nursemaiding a Rubbery across London was no picnic, I’ll tell you that.”

“It’s him,” the Spy confirms. “This is who he should have been all along. The University facade was sort of a case of self-brainwashing— which I’m very much opposed to, by the way. To be honest, I’m not even totally sure this one counts as a betrayal. But probably close enough for government work.”

“Ooooonaarrrghhh,” the Rubbery says.

“Right back at you,” the Spy says, affectionately. “Whatever that means.”

“An improvement already,” the Herald says, not looking up from her book.

“Seeker,” the Captain says, low and dangerous.

“You signed a contract,” he says, very quickly.

“Seeker, I swear- witness me in this, Herald. I swear to you, by my name and his and this ship I captain, that if you don’t get me back my Student before we reach the Avid Horizon, I’ll drown you in sight of your own blasted Gate!”

“You know,” the Spy complains. “I asked him. I asked him very specifically if there was anything like this he ought to tell me about, and does he tell me? Not a word.”

“Wrong question. You ought to have asked me- no, you shouldn’t have. You ought to have known perfectly well for yourself, it was obvious!”

“How was I supposed to know there was another love affair going on here? Nobody ever said anything!”

“I’ll tell you something,” the Assassin notes into the silence. “He was always completely terrible at this back on the Surface, too.”

“Murdoc, do you have any idea how unhelpful you’re being right now?”

**************

The Student wakes up, feeling nicely refreshed. A pile of shining confetti has completely ruined the look of his favourite waistcoat, but other than that he’s in fine fettle.

“But this is the Mirror-Marshes,” he says aloud. “I thought I went through Dream’s Mirror.”

“It’s complicated, m’boy, you understand. Very…complicated.”

He turns, to see the Captain roasting a lizard on a stick. Not Alice: their old captain, the one who ran off with the cat.

“Thought you’d never arrive,” the Captain says, eyes glinting. “Now we can settle down to business.”


	8. light quenched, bound dark

_the Snares_

Even on a ship as small as the  _Clipper,_ there are two lifeboats kept in reserve. There are a number of good reasons for this; in case one’s damaged, there’s a backup. In case the contraband carried happens to be prisoners rather than cargo, more seats might be necessary. In case somebody steals one, it’s simpler to go and catch them with the second one then to attempt running them down with the whole ship. That tends to be unfortunately fatal.

“My zee-bats are trained to alert me, in case anyone takes one,” the Herald informs the unfortunate Assassin. “However did you think you were going to get very far?”

“It wasn’t that much further away,” the Assassin says, casting a bitter glance at the island just out of reach; his rowing increases in tempo, as if beating her back to the ship will prove anything. “I know they’re uninhabited, I know no one ever lands there- but I’ve come to the end of my patience with that Seeker. I’ve had enough. There’s enough space in the Neath, we can manage to get by without meeting again.”

“He wants you rather desperately. You ought to know that.”

“And I wanted him, but not on terms like this,” the Assassin says. He, presumably, expects his tone to sound radiantly angry; to her it merely sounds pathetic. “He won’t talk to me, except about the most necessary things. Has better conversations with that Rubbery than with me. With the cat. I get all the respect and love due a wardrobe of mediocre design, and that simply isn’t enough. Not for what he puts me through.”

“Which is?”

“You don’t want to know,” the Assassin says, briefly. “Seeker things. He’s always very hungry.”

In the silence of the Neath’s omnipresent night, she eyes his bandages. Considers the vast, gaping disconnect, between the unpredictable lurker the Spy’s told her about, and this pallid, simple man, who is not very remarkable after all, in their blasted Neath.

“A secret for a secret. You’ll give me one of yours, I’ll give you one of mine, and then we’ll see where we’re at.”

“How about the other way around?” the Assassin suggests, with narrowed eyes.

“No.”

Matters in the Neath are apt to be so convoluted, that the chance to deliver a short, straightforward no is very refreshing.

The Assassin sulks all the way back to the ship.

*************

The Herald’s secret sharing is for mirrors, like most First Officers (which the Student never was, no matter what the poor fool fancied); she keeps a velvet-lined case with a hundred and forty-four of the things, which can be slotted about her cabin for a variety of angles and positions. Today, the prism: to reconstitute many brightly coloured truths into one clear, transparent light.

“Humbug,” the Assassin scoffs. “All right. What’s the secret you want, then?”

“Everything the Spy’s done to you— all of it, the degradation, the misery, mild torture or whatever it is you do behind closed doors— will you tell me whether you weren’t planning the same sort of treatment for him, if we hadn’t caught you first?”

“Never,” the Assassin promises her, studying his reflections; he seems to draw strength from the many images of himself, scattered about her room. “I would have loved him. Honoured him. Obsessed over him. Killed anybody who he chose, acquired anything he wanted, wrapped up this whole Neath with a bow for a betrothal present, if he’d taken the fancy. Offered myself up as sacrifice, if he’d only asked— anything, anything at all, except subject myself to this lukewarm indifference. Are you satisfied?”

“All right,” the Herald says, unhooking the mirrors. “That was the truth I asked for. You can lie now, if you wish.”

“You said you’d have a secret for me, too.”

“In a moment. Were you genuinely responsible for his traveling down here? Being trapped in a century that wasn’t his, all alone?”

“Certainly,” the Assassin says, with ready boredom. “I’d tried every way except patience— and we were running out of time, he’s the sort to burn up in offering to the Moth. I couldn’t bear the idea of losing him for good, so I made sure to have him give chase down here. Wait awhile, let the cultural shock set in…obviously I waited too long. But he was always such a loner. I had no idea that he’d get to wanting companionship as badly as he did.”

Perhaps the loneliness was more to do with his Surface handlers, the Herald thinks; but that’s a question for another day. “And could you get him home again? If you wanted?”

“No.”

Perhaps that was a lie. Perhaps the rest was too. “All right. Tell me your ritual, and I’ll give you a secret.”

“The same as the Innocent’s,” the Assassin says. “With a twist. It’ll leave a scar.”

Maybe the Student had a point (she catches herself missing their lingering midnight arguments; there’s nobody else to quarrel with now); the Assassin really does live up to his adjective. This is the sort of childish nonsense that the average Urchin would be ashamed to admit to.

Oh, well, it wouldn’t be the first time she suffered wounds in the hunt for lore. “Left arm, just below the shoulder. That way it’ll match the other one.”

He looks nonplussed, but recovers himself, and draws the knife lightly over her skin. Whatever shape he’s crafting, she ignores; there’ll be time enough to consider that when she patches up the wound.

“Do you love him, too?”

She considers her prisoner’s eyes, his broken-winged desire, and decides the wording of her answer. “Not the same way as you. Never like that, I promise.”

“That’s all I needed to know,” the Assassin says, strangely content. “That Philanthropist is a passing fling, nothing more.”

“Are you sure? He hangs on her arm, whenever they’re in Port Carnelian.”

“MacGyver never could tolerate holier-than-thou millionaires, they were an oddly personal peeve of his. Whatever the betrayal he’s planning for her is, I promise it’ll be quite spectacular.”

Oh, yes. That name again.

They do seem to be in a mutual conspiracy to hide it from him.

“I thought you were in the Great Game. This secret tastes of iron, not veils.”

“I am not a subtle person,” the Assassin says. “Our agency had an award for ‘Most Obvious Death’ at the Christmas party every year. It was a running gag that nobody else was ever going to win it, as long as I was still working there.”

That one, she suspects she might be able to believe.

“I’ll talk to the Innocent for you. See if I can intercede, have him go a little easier on you.”

“I want him, or nothing at all,” the Assassin pouts.

“Will you settle for not having a Seeker devouring your flesh every night?”

“…I suppose I can live with that. For the time being.”

************

“Only it seems to annoy him,” the Herald explains to the Innocent that afternoon, in the engine room. (There’s no sign of the Assassin’s presence amongst the rumpled bedclothes, and she can’t help wondering where the fellow sleeps.) “Not that you should be surprised to hear this.”

“Well, I guess I’m kinda surprised.” There’s a slightly guilty expression on his face, but only slightly; as if she’d caught him in a state of undress. “But he heals up so quick, and after the first time, he never even complained. I thought it, uh…” He coughs. “I thought it turned him on. He loves violence. Always loved me being violent even better.”

Whither trains its disciples to be unflappable in the face of all creeds. “I’m entertaining a strong suspicion that what he thought he wanted, when it was safely in the realm of delectable fantasies, is a far cry from what he actually enjoys experiencing. Particularly as the victim rather than the inflictor.”

“Okay. Fair enough, I just wish he’d mentioned it instead of dragging you into this. Guess I’ll have to take it down a notch…which is sort of annoying, really. I always felt so good afterwards.”

Innocent. No wonder the Assassin’s so colourless, no wonder their Spy’s so swaggering. Flesh of flesh, bone of bone.

“I wonder whether I chose rightly,” she says. “Some Seeker has to open the Gate eventually, and I thought you’d do the least damage. I could have been wrong.”

“I’m not good for him, if that’s what you’re asking,” the Spy agrees. “I don’t feel so badly about it as I might, which makes it worse.”

“What did he do to you? Back on the Surface?”

He tenses, in a way that she recalls from their earliest voyages together; drawing himself close, with eyes that won’t give anything away. “Hounded me. Killed people, maimed them, tried to make me use a gun. Used a flamethrower to destroy my friend’s summer cabin. Called me at night, when I just wanted to sleep and shut it all out for a little while…it got to me, in the end. I quit the Game. Spent a year hiding in the middle of the wilderness, until I stopped being scared of my own shadow, and could face going out and taking risks again. You know what, though? After a year alone, there wasn’t anything more I wanted than friendly company. Only that was the one thing I wasn’t going to get, in the life I’d built for myself. All my friends were dead, or gone, I’d let them down…I thought maybe it’d be different, down here. But you can’t teach an old dog tricks, I guess.”

“I’m here,” the Herald remarks, with infinite self-regard.

He grins. “For how much longer, though? All the way? You know I’ll ask for your betrayal, one of these days.”

“I’ve been awaiting it with great interest.”

“Then let’s do it now,” he says suddenly. “Before I lose my nerve. Or you wise up.”

His hand against her arm, as if they were lovers; he guides her out to the ladders, and she thinks they’re going up but he keeps moving into the boiler room. A crate lies to one side, half-open; he pulls out dark unlabelled bottles, pours them into the spare boiler. Sets the flame simmering, very low.

“What are we doing? What is this?”

“A drowning. A survivable one, I think. Tell me, what’s the worst fate you could imagine?”

“Exile from the Neath.” Hot Mediterranean sun burns through her nightmares, sometimes; when she’s weary past endurance and otherwise strained. The fear of losing her cool, darkened grotto, safe against Judgmental degradations, lost and endlessly fascinating.

“So any betrayal that didn’t result in that- anything that left you still in the Neath, still alive, unscarred- you’d tolerate that?”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“I don’t think you’d let me do it,” the Innocent says, artlessly enough. “You ought to have learned by now, how I handle these. Leave me be, or take a gamble that you know you’ll lose.”

She thinks of the Student’s fate, of the Crewmember’s, and hardens. “I doubt, even with your help, that my Reflection could take me. I’m better versed in their ways than one poor soft Rubbery. But as for what you did to our Captain…a forced naming, and a wrong persona. I’d have killed you out of hand for that, myself.”

He shrugs. “I expect she wanted to, in part. But something was there that wanted to reach out, be someone specific, come out from the safe refuge of anonymity. None of us chose the name for her- though the Student always loved it, did you know that? Something about a mathematician he corresponded with.”

“That is a remarkably perceptive comment for somebody who professed not to know they were having an affair.”

“Hindsight is always wiser,” the Spy says, dumping in the last bottle. “Anyhow, I’m not planning either of those fates for you. Yours will be a lot simpler.” He pulls over the crate, for use as a stepstool.  

“I should have told you to go change. Your clothes will be soaked.”

“The time I’ve spent knocking around the Neath, and you’re wondering whether I have waterproof garments? Any zailor worth their salt takes that trouble.”

“But-“ the Spy starts, and stops again. “All right, never mind. Jump in, the liquid ought to be just about blood warm by now.”

It is. She had to paddle a little, to keep her head above water; the tank is just slightly taller than her height. Nothing very irksome, though.

The water is black around her, with volatile vapours she can’t immediately place. Very soothing, though, very comfortable. Weightlessness, fumes: her head throbs giddily.

“Are you going to drown me, now?”

“No, no,” the Spy says. “Got a book on the go here. I’m just going to wait until I hear you go under, then I’ll rescue you, and we’re all done.”

If he’s going to wait for that, the Herald promises herself, he is going to have an exceedingly long day of it.

It is. She floats, she swims a little; she keeps her head leaned back, breathing calmly and meditating. A good practitioner can keep this up for days on end, if necessary, hoping for an improbable rescue.

Easily done. Easy. The fumes smell almost pleasant now, and she tries to place the scent but can’t properly recall it.

“Are you going to drown me?”

“Be appropriate, wouldn’t it?” He chuckles.

Her skirts are heavy against her sides; this is the heavy dress she wears for filthy tasks, such as coming down to the engine room. The Spy probably noticed that. Thoughtful of him to ask.

“Are you going to drown me?”

“No,” the Spy says, sounding immensely irritated. “Would you like to know how often you’ve asked me that question now?”

“A few times? Two, three?”

“Thirty-seven,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I wish you’d pack it in already.”

“Black bottles,” the Herald sings. “Black bottles, black bottles- oblivion! Why am I swimming in black oblivion?”

“It seemed like a good idea to you at the time,” the Spy tells her. “Don’t ask me why.”

“Are you going to rescue me soon?”

“Not until your head goes below water.”

She paddles, with frenetic energy; her body is far more exhausted than it has any reason to be, so early in the afternoon— “Innocent, won’t you please drown me yet? Only I’m so tired. And I can’t remember why I’m doing this.”

“Fourteen hours,” he mutters. “Salt and Stone help me, if you don’t give up soon I’m just gonna have to rescue you anyway. Forget about the betrayal, admit that you were too strong for me…”

Thirst crackles along her tongue. Unthinkingly, she leans forward, swallows a tasteless draught.

“Black oblivion,” she says, and stops.

Somebody outside the world- her world, four walls, streaked with steam, and a high, high ceiling far above- somebody outside is crying. She wonders how long he’s been doing it.

“I can’t do this,” a voice says. “I can’t.”

There’s a sound of machinery moving, valves squeaking. A suction starts at her feet, a ticklish vortex- and the water starts to vanish!

Wherever the water’s going, she wants to go with it (she can’t imagine what life would be like without it.) Pulls her head down, curling herself into a ball, finally immersing herself in the -

something-

words-

water-

gone

***************

“Herald, are you all right?”

She blinks at him. “I thought we were well rid of you.”

“Ha ha,” the Student says, with most self-congratulatory smugness. “Good thing for you I’m not. Otherwise, well- I believe the correct phrase is, a fate worse than death?”

“But if I’m here in Parabola,” the Herald says, looking about the dream- _Clipper_ ; yes, her Cartographer’s here as well, no doubt as exasperating as ever. “And she’s here. What’s happening with my body?”

“Drugged up with so much black oblivion, neither of you are going to be able to use it for ages yet,” the Student informs her. “Lucky you. At least you’ll have an uninhabited one to go back to, assuming that somebody remembers to feed it, and water it, and all that sort of thing- why’d you do it, Herald? You could have just clambered out, the tank wasn’t that deep.”

“I believe I forgot that was a possibility.” The Student is not, she guesses, ever going to let her live that one down.

Judging by his grin, he won’t.


	9. when the last restraint is gone

"Don't be ridiculous, a Seeker can't leave off hungering. Anybody who still had that level of self-control wouldn’t be a Seeker anymore, the entire idea’s preposterous."

"Oh, there's no doubt about his cravings," the Assassin tells her. "It's just that he's refusing to indulge them any longer, he hasn’t so much as drunk a cup of tea since the affair. Far too busy feeling guilty about the Herald’s present state of repose.“

“Well, it was his fault.”

“Obviously. In the meantime, what course of action would you suggest?”

The Captain considers. One of the best engineers in the Neath, incalculably valuable as an intelligence asset, and the most competent officer she has left. 

“Carry on. Just let him starve.”

“I want him to live,” the Assassin snaps. 

“You obviously don’t know him very well, if you think direct orders are the way to go about this- he has a talent for wriggling out of those. No doubt his knack for self-preservation will come to the fore eventually.” 

“Under normal circumstances,” the Assassin agrees. “Which these are not. I’m- worried, I suppose. That I might have broken him.”

A remarkably limp noodle of an assassin, the Captain can’t help thinking. “Wasn’t that your entire plan in the first place?”

“Not like this! I wanted him, not some Seeking-hollowed ghost! You go to all the trouble of coaxing your beloved to the one place on earth where it’s practically impossible to die, and he has to go and find the one way to keep ruining his life!”

He all but wails the last phrase. A new engineer and a new crewmember, the Captain decides. 

“…I suppose you’ve tried cooking for him.“

“He said he didn’t want any,“ the Assassin says, glum as a seasick urchin. “It’s partly my fault, I suppose. We had an- incident, on the Surface, that rather turned him off my cooking.“

“Well, if you can’t feed him, and I won’t, and the Rubbery-” she can’t help her voice shaking slightly, rage and loss inseparable- “and as the Rubbery’s hardly going to, he’ll just have to starve to death on this well-provisioned ship. I do hope you like the taste of irony.”

If this blasted Assassin hadn’t come to the Neath, neither would the Spy. And even now, it’s so much easier to hate this offensive lump of a killer, who doesn’t even like zailing, then their honest, wild, broken engineer, tracing steps across the deck with bright-edged despair in his eyes. 

(Besides which, the Assassin’s certainly killed many more people. That has to count as a dismerit of sorts.)

“If you’re going to cry,” she adds, “do get off the bridge. I’ve business to attend to.”

The Assassin flees; and the Captain relaxes, waves invitingly to the green slimy creature lurking in the corner. She hands over control of the wheel to him; he paws at it, with frightened unsure motions. 

No worse than the Student’s, though; and despite everything, she tastes the savoury tang of hope, lying on the winds. 

“Now, then. Now, then. I’ll make a zailor of you yet, believe you me.“

If she takes care not to look at his eyes, she can tell herself they’re making progress. 

******

To die of self-denial, amongst the Elder Continent's surfeit of abundance, is a ludicrously cruel notion. But not more than he deserves, the Spy reckons. 

His body's younger than his years, while retaining all its instinctive cunning. Given a noose, his fingers would unravel it without thought; dropped in the zee, he'd kick his way to the surface, unable to stop the methodical desire for breath after breath after breath. Decades of honing his will to live, relying on instinct to pull him through even in the absence of conscious wanting, aren't to be undone without price. He doubts he'd be able to consciously direct himself a death. 

And the Assassin, fool that he is, won't serve. So it'll have to be the slow way, the harder path, though inaction's very little easier. Waking from sleep is never less than hateful, now. 

"I love you."

Sweet to hear someone say that, without crippling fear rippling in the wake. He has no qualms about disappointing this one, of all his lovers; there's no need to feel badly about not living up to the Assassin's desires.

"Thirsty," he manages, after a time. 

The Assassin brings him red wine, cooled with ice from their stores- worth a ransom price round these parts, but nobody cares about that now. The Captain's set a course straight south, up the bloody channel. 

"Why should I travel your eaten-cursed route, anyway?" they'd asked at the time. 

He'd still been coherent then, only a little weakened by deprivation, not yet muted with suffering. "Because it'll be the price of a soul."

"Only Captains," they'd said, carelessly interested. "Only ever Captains survive that. Well, I suppose Seekers have their own little contrivances there."

Just such a fear has hollowed out his heart.

Thirst banished (so must he fool the body, time after time), hunger returns more vividly than ever. Dozens of violently delicious scents tickle at his senses: all captivating, all luscious. The Assassin begs him to eat. Slices up apples and pomegranates, their juices dripping from his knife. 

He closes his mouth, his desire, against the forbidden fruits, and sits sturdily cross-legged. 

"I'll feed you like a poet," the Assassin breathes against his ear. "Roll myself in temptations, press myself against you. They say there's nothing love can't do."

Try it, and I will collapse inwards, the Spy thinks. Papery as the deserted nest of wasps, brittle like plaster. The hollowness inside him grows every morning; he imagines it eating its way along the contours of his abdomen, chest, limbs, until nothing remains to stop a tattered skin floating off in the wind. "They're wrong."

"Nothing's impossible, in the Neath. We'll get your Herald back for you, if you want. The Student, too. Anything at all, you'll have it."

"Shouldn't have brought me. Shouldn't have taught me..." and he musters some little energy to raise a hand, turn his head in wry parody of his own accustomed actions. "You wanted me to see death beautiful, like you do. So it is."

The Assassin swears, and sobs, and lashes out. Loss, revival, blurring into one long repeated note, held taut by the pattern of their lives. 

(seven times, it has to happen. He knew that from the start, and almost laughs that the Assassin can't comprehend his own betrayals, cannot understand why he has become mere machinery in the tale, why there's no room in the telling for a simple motif, of love redeeming love.)

("thank you," he says, each time, and smiles at each piercing scream.)

There comes a day when the Captain leaves her ship's safe interior to come see how they're getting on, picking her way carefully through the mess of crimson fluids running over the deck. "You're both still alive, I notice."

"Well observed," the Assassin says. "And he's staying that way, until he'll drink my cider."

"I thought it didn't work that way. That a flask once sold, could never be parted with."

"I've never been one to let rules stand in my way," the Assassin informs her, contemptuously practical. "If we share it, that ought to be enough to get us both back from the river- if in a weakened state, I'll admit."

No use quarreling the point, the Spy considers. Anyone who would persist in carrying the Neath's improbabilities into the Great Game's madness has no respect for the rightness of things. "No."

"Yes," the Assassin says. "Shall I drown you in cider? I've never heard what the result of the experiment would be."

The Captain, behind him, looks on with revulsion; and the Spy finds his wit suddenly sharp again, his head clear, as though presence of mind were a tool he'd momentarily forgotten and found again. 

Providing he has enough strength left to use it. "Let me see it."

Pleased, desirous, hungry in a way the Spy cannot imagine ever being, the Assassin draws out the precious stuff. Smirks with empty insouciance; he can't resist showing off, drinking deep in the face of another's thirst. 

The smile of a shark: and like a shark, caught and netted. The Captain runs the Assassin through with a nicely sharpened spar. 

"I'd do you," she says, not bothering to wipe off the tool (he wonders whether a faint thrill of irritation will be the last trace of one frightened, future-born engineer). "But you seem to be getting on well enough without intervention."

"Like a glamour," he mutters, forcing pained muscles to shift, stiff ligaments to stretch. "Now he's gone- I'm so hungry!"

She doesn't frown until he starts to move, falling over just within arm's reach of a gently yielding fig; then she kicks it out of the way, and clamps her boot down on his hand. 

"No. No, no- please."

"You're never going to let yourself die," the Captain tells him, almost with compassion. "I suppose that's what fascinated the Assassin...well, I'll do you this one last favour. Shipmates owe each other that much."

Trouble is, in his heart he might agree with her- this Neath has captivated him, broken him for his old life and tired him of the new- but mind's despair has nothing to do with his starkly wrought need, the all-consuming urgency to sustain his life. Ravenous, hardly conscious, he plucks at passing branches, grabs at flesh. His Captain bellows in frustration, as she slips on the slippery deck and falls ungracefully. 

"Get off me! Off!"

He's not bothering to talk; there are better purposes for his mouth at present. Here, under the thin linen smock, is a surfeit of hot juiced meat all ready and waiting- 

(the thing that he has forgotten is that he is a spy, not a street brawler; and the Captain has no trouble coping with his feeble efforts. She tips him off, over the side, and down into the river he goes.)

The drowning comes as rather a relief.  


	10. for so long as the seas shall last

"Give me back my Student."

The Fathomking nods, and accepts her treasures- all the  _Clipper's_ riches, from their months of Carnelian toil. No one else around to dispute the division, so she'd spent it as she'd wished. 

He would have been horrified at the use she's put his enigmas, and a certain Herald would wax wrathful at the looting of her cabin, and their beloved old Captain surely meant his scintillack for other purposes, but those wishes boot nothing now. There are some advantages to running a ship solo. 

(Long that voyage had been, and very lonely.)

"He is not as he was," the Complexity warns. "What came was worthy of apotheosis. What leaves, leaves only as itself."

She nods, not trusting her voice, and watches as they bring him out in bronzed chains. The other rescues have been cold, empty-faced; she steels herself against the certitude of failure. 

"I don't understand," he says, as the guards unfasten his wrists. "I don't understand what I'm here for."

"You're my first officer," she says, stiff and proud-backed as any in the hall. "Come with me."

They walk out of the salt-kissed domain, and nothing more happens until they're back on the ship, and long out of port. 

"...why?"

"I wanted you back."

"You had a fascinating scientific curiosity," the Student remarks. "Suffering a little from shock, I'll agree, but it was learning to cope. A Rubbery that could hold itself to a human shape, even temporarily, do you have any idea how much you could have fetched for me at a carnival?"

"Enough to buy out the ship and pay for my retirement, I shouldn't doubt."

"And instead you throw that all away for- a pontificating scholar, of the sort that go for twenty the tuppence back in London. Paying through the nose for it, too, and I know your miserly streak. It just seems an utter waste, is all."

"Don't tell me you're regretting it for your own sake."

"No," the Student says, properly mortified. "I'm indecently grateful. I'm relieved beyond measure. I hope I never have to even think about Rubberies, ever again, and-" he kisses her right there on deck, with false-stars and zee-bats for witness. "And you have no idea how glad I am, to have a second chance with you."

"Now there, Student, I think you're wrong. I expect I've every notion."

And she kisses him back, as their  _Clipper_ moves joyously over the peligin waves. 


	11. oh the rage at the deceptions

When he wakes, it's in his own familiar bunk; and the Innocent Spy can't help thinking that nothing would be nicer than to roll right back over and go to sleep again. The engine's chiming the night watch (a little addition of his own, since the hour-whistle's a little too infrequent for his tastes). Nobody ought to be expecting him. 

His body's all right, give or take; unduly thin but recognisably his own. A few scars to show for the ordeal, but there's flesh on his bones, vitality humming in his veins again. Dying in the Neath has more to recommend it than he's ever heard. 

(All right, so supposedly he can't go home again; but if some two-bit assassin could figure out a way around that, so can he.)

Settling in again, he almost drifts off to blissful sleep, before a churlish grumbling reminds him why he woke up in the first place; sighing, he pulls on his gant leather jacket and heads up to the galley. 

"How dare you."

The Herald's voice, sounding rather tired, as though she's been stuck arguing with the Student for too many hours. It's not him sitting with her, though; it's their Captain. The old one, with the cat. 

"My dear, just because you're au fait with blood and ritual doesn't mean no one else does. I've been knocking around the Neath long enough to know a trick or two myself."

"You might have asked me, all the same."

"Now what good's a foreseen betrayal? That's just a sacrifice, and those aren't any good for a Seeker. No, he needed to play it out his own way, to the last tear- and I made sure he did, while protecting my company in the process. So all's well in the end. You're alive, the Student's alive, the Spy's alive- and I'll admit the process of getting you all to this point was messy, but it did work."

(The Spy settles down, just outside the door. Curiosity always was his keenest appetite.)

The Herald huffs. "Staying well out of it yourself, I can't help but notice."

"Really, now. At my age, do you think it's fair to ask me to put myself on the spot for a Seeker? Besides. There's very little he could have taken away from me. Even the ship's in better hands than mine."

"Maybe he couldn't, but I'm sorely tempted to find something. Waking up to find my cabin ransacked, our Spy nearly dead, losing my Reflection's services-"

"Now what do you have to complain about there? It could have been you suffering all that irrigo drain, instead of her."

"It," the Herald says crossly. "It's inconvenient, is all. Like all the rest of this."

"You're just irritated that you weren't orchestrating."

"And that still doesn't help with the rest of his betrayals...let me see. Crewmember, Student, myself. That Philanthropist, I suspect he has his own plans for, and the Assassin's bound to be roped in somewhere. A Noman's essentially free, if we wait until Neathmas, so then he'll only need one more. Perhaps you'll have to go on the chopping block after all, Captain."

"I should say- hullo!" 

"Evening," the Spy says. "Sorry to startle you, but I woke up pretty hungry."

"Predictably," the Herald comments, with dry reserve. "So you are still seeking, I take it."

"Sure."

The Captain's frown is uncharacteristically harsh. "After all you've been through. The starvation, the torment, all those horrors- aren't you content to step back and be an engineer again?"

"Not a bit of it." The prospect of sun-soaked harbour and ordinary time again seems oddly unappealing at present, but his fascination with discoveries has yet to let him down. "I still want to find out what's happening with this mystery. Too bad there's no easier way to solve it, but since there isn't..."

Considerable spluttering. "But I- the Fathomking swore-"

"Swore what?"

"Never you mind," the Captain says; and his cat hisses. "But I asked you once about building an engine, and it seems you're farther away from that goal than ever."

"Oh, right. An sky-bound impeller, it's my perfect temptation," the Spy agrees. "This Neath of yours is pretty good at those. And teaching people that they're more trouble than they're worth. I think I'd rather stick to my current course."

He crumbles fungal crackers into a bowl of mushroom tea and drinks, feeling inordinately comforted by the hot nourishment. "And besides, that's betrayal number four."

Softly, the Herald starts to giggle; and he matches her smile for smile. 

"I bought you a destiny," the Captain says bitterly. "When it became obvious that you were too besotted to leave well enough alone, I had to finish Operation Azimuth. I sold my command for it. My birthright, my career, any hope of captaining a ship again, for you to build the greatest engine in creation. You're not meant to seek and you never were!"

"That's why the betrayal's so perfect," the Spy says cheekily. "All I have to do is- nothing. Not build anything, not go chasing across the Unterzee trying to figure out how to construct a dream-engine, not do whatever craziness I'd have to finish to see that through. At least with seeking," he says, between sips of tea, "I know who I'm helping, and why. How many people will want to take this Fulgent Impeller if I ever built it, anyway? London? The Khanate, Port Carnelian? Will I have to spend the rest of my days on the run from people who want me to build them war engines? Let me tell you something, maybe in this time period I'm a genius, but back home, I'm honestly just a dabbler who'll never build anything- but anything- that could be used as a weapon. And that's just the way I like it."

"Coming from a Seeker, that's the most absolute nonsense! The path you're on only leads to destruction!"

"Because everyone's so afraid of Mr Eaten," the Spy says, bowing his head. "Maybe I'm a dope, for believing in forgiveness. For thinking there might be a beast out there called redemption. Maybe the world's built so that even asking the question brings the sky crashing down on us. And if that's so...well, I guess all I can say is, I'm sorry. But I'm gonna try it anyway."

"You're possessed."

"Possibly," the Spy acknowledges, and pours out another cup of tea. "Do we have any more of those shortbread biscuits? You know, the ones with cherry filling?"

"In the morocco cupboard," the Herald says. "Captain, I believe you've outwitted yourself. If you'd spent a little less time manipulating him for the protection of your old shipmates, one of us would probably have died the true death by now- and that's probably the only thing that'd turn him off the path."

"I had a geas. To keep everyone under my command safe."

"And another to defend London. I hope, for your sake, you feel that you chose rightly there."

He rises, and stalks out without another word. 

"That was awkward," the Spy says sleepily. "Glad we're all together again- Herald, I'm sorry. I honestly thought I was helping the Student, and I've a feeling the Crewmember will come round eventually, but I knew you were only going to be damaged in that betrayal. That's the one I'd have never forgiven myself for, if it hadn't come out like this."

"It's just as well. I'm the one best equipped to understand the fine madness of ritual hunting."

"Nevertheless."

 


	12. method of exhaustion

Even the Student’s noxious coffee brew will only keep her on her feet for so long; but the Herald’s almost finished with her cabin now, repairing the ravages of their lust-driven zailor. Love’s all very well in its way, the Herald supposes; but it has an awful tendency to blind the subject to all else besides the beloved object.

She feels entitled to a certain petty anger, just at present. Anyone else stripped of their Reflection would have suffered the gravest consequences in Parabola.

“That moment in a dream,” she explains to the Innocent. “When you fall into the chasm, and death comes rushing up to greet you- it’s your Reflection who takes that fall, not you. But imagine venturing into a dream realm with your own body. Anyone without the most careful mental controls, a deep understanding of meditative practice, could easily die in seconds.“

“So that’s why you’ve not been sleeping,” the Innocent says, recapping his pot of zee-monster glue (just the stuff for small repairs, she’s found; sturdy and yet ritualistic).

“So that’s why I’ve not been sleeping.” The duration of a whole long voyage up the Elder Continent and back again, while she’d nursed her failing Reflection’s health. Praying that the drained creature would last until all the black oblivion had been sweated out of her soulless vessel. “I can craft another Reflection, in time, but it isn’t a cheap or easy process. And meantime, I stood vulnerable to any passing dragon.”

“Let me know if I can do- well. Anything.”

“Oh, it ought to be well enough now,” the Herald says, affixing the last tiny stone of a mosaic back into place. “My cabin has redundant protections, so this place will be sanctuary enough for now. Not ideal for my purposes, but certainly better than dying.”

“I wonder-” he stops, surprisingly abashed. That Surfacer quirk never will leave him be, she reckons.

“Wonder what?”

“If I could stay here tonight. There’s a sort of- heaviness, in the air,” the Innocent says unhappily. “Like a storm coming. Is there any chance of an Alteration on the way?”

“Certainly not,” the Herald promises. “My barometer would have warned me, for a start- and besides, you’re the last person I’d ask for a doomsayer’s insights.”

“Soothsaying, no, but I didn’t make it this long by ignoring my instincts. And mine are all saying that something’s going to break tonight.” He nestles down beneath her thickest duvet, the yellow one coloured like Jersey cream. “I’ve never felt so unsafe aboard this ship before. Even my engines don’t sound right.”

She could doubtless rein in her amusement, but why bother? “You do look exquisitely vulnerable like that.”

“Oh, please don’t, that’s the sort of thing the Assassin would say. Maybe he’s the one that’s worrying me...I mean yes, we’ve been using and hurting each other all along, but seven times!” the Innocent murmurs. “It’ll be a long voyage before I feel up to sharing his bed again.”

It’d be tempting to ask what they used in place of beer for the scarring, when the _Clipper_ doesn’t carry any; but there are some questions best left for better timing. “By all means, then, stay here. In fact-”

“You’ve had a thought,” he says, when the pause turns into long minutes.  

“Not an alteration, but- I’d best find the Captain.”

“Which one?”

“That might,” the Herald calls, as she hurries out of the cabin. “That might be exactly the problem!”

He shakes his head at her silliness, and drops off into warm, contented slumber. 

****

“Of course I made the challenge,” the Captain says, leaning against her ship’s wheel. “After my maiden voyage, as is only right and fitting- I’ll have you know, it was cold enough to freeze anyone’s nose off that night. Prancing around the deck with a hand-knotted flail.”

“Another ritual?” the Student inquires, sounding less contemptuous than usual. (They take all their watches together now, on the Captain’s orders. Inefficient love again, the Herald notes.) “What’s it all about?”

“Banishing ghosts,” the Captain says. “Whenever there’s any doubt about the leadership of a vessel, say a Captain going missing like ours did, it’s traditional to allow the ghost a chance to present itself. A good job he didn’t, either, or we might have been in trouble. He always was a sight cleverer than he let on.”

“I don’t follow. There’s ships led by ghosts?”

“There’s ghost ships,” the Captain says darkly. “Flimsy enough they can tack onto an unwind, heaving about the place frightening the life out of jati cargo tugs. All powered by the Captain’s own desires. The Seeker ought to have taught you by now, what sort of madness that can land you in.”

“But then you couldn’t die.”

“But then you couldn’t live,” the Captain counters; and chuckles at the Student’s wide-eyed comprehension. “Anyhow, it’s all by the by. He’s gone and not coming back, evidently.”

“You know that, and I know that,” the Herald says quietly. “Does he know that? Captain, I think we’d best all stay in my cabin tonight.”

“Who’ll take watch?” the Student fusses.

“Cut the engines.”

Silence falls, understandably; that’s no less than a sin at sea, and even the Student can understand how severe the crisis is, that she’d even suggest such a thing.

“The rest of you go, then,” the Captain says. “Myself, I’ll stay and fight for the ship. The _Clipper’s_ mine now, and I’ll have no soft-hearted Welshman telling me otherwise.”

“If you’re staying, I ought to help."

“Not like that, my love,” the Captain tells him. “You stay well out of danger and don’t let him take you, or there’s no knowing the idiocies I’d go to for fetching you back- why, what’s the matter, Mog?”

The ship’s cat shrieks at her, after the way of all distressed felines, and runs a rapid circuit around the bridge. Once, twice, thrice.

“...I don’t know what lore deals with the running of cats, but I’ll bet you anything you like it isn’t good,” the Student ventures.

“Hold him off,” the Herald says.

It takes him a confused moment to realise that the Herald isn’t talking about him; and that his Captain is raising her cat-o’-nine-tails in ceremonial salute. To a flickering reflection, which resembles her not at all but someone else, quite familiar-

“That was our old Captain, wasn’t it?” he asks a few breathless minutes later, once they've bumped down to the Herald's cabin and sealed the door tight. “And here I was thinking I was the only one unlucky enough to be subsumed by their own reflection- what happened to his body?”

“As the ship goes, so does the captain,” the Herald informs him. “None of them ever really surrender their command, as long as they have so much as a rowboat to look after- he broke every commandment of his zee-code, in surrendering his vessel. No one does that. Corporeality won’t stand for it.”

“I still don’t believe in that.”

“He does,” the Herald says, closing her eyes. “Don’t worry overmuch. Your Captain has the right kind of youth and experience mingled together, and fresh love on her side. I don’t see anything short of a god would have much luck taking her ship away now, much less old Josiah.”

“But he did say something about the Fathomking,” the Innocent ventures, peeking out of his blanket-bundle. “Isn’t the Fathomking halfway kin to the gods, or something of that sort?”

She frowns, and doesn’t answer.

“How long is this going to take?” the Student demands. Best to stick to practicalities, in the face of danger.

“...normally, I’d say a few hours. A few days, perhaps. But this whole affair’s so topsy-turvy anyhow- I’d say it’s a little your fault, Seeker. All the rituals in flux, whenever one of you are about.”

“What’s my fault?”

So they explain it to him, all over again. The Innocent whimpers slightly; the Herald hastens to reassure him.

“He hasn’t any business with us, only the Captain- and my cabin’s safe enough. Whatever happens.”

“Oh, I believe you about that. Only-

“I’m not sure about this,” the Student mutters. “You realise we can’t wait here indefinitely? Only as long as it takes a Seeker to get hungry again.”

“I ought to have a crate of supplies here,” the Herald says. “Assuming our Captain hasn’t undone her own bowstrings, by making off with that as well- she has, hasn’t she?”

“They, not she,” the Student insists. “I don’t know why the rest of you have such trouble with that.”

“All that cheese fetched quite a high price at Adam’s Way. Sorry I let her, only I didn’t know you’d be wanting anything ever again.” The Innocent presses himself against the wall, white-faced. “But I’ll manage. I’ll give up the Seeking, if it comes to that.”

“By no means are we allowing that to happen,” the Herald says impatiently. “Four betrayals! Four betrayals and no real harm done, that couldn’t happen again in a month of Sundays. I won’t let you deny all that just because our old shipmate is fancying a haunt. Someone is going to have to open the Gate first, and I’d far rather it’d be you than some- oh, glory seeker. Wine-sodden merchant venturer, anyone of that sort. Yours isn’t the kindest quest, but it’ll be a meaningful beginning- and I attach quite a high value to those.”

“I don’t feel much like the fantastic hero you’re describing. Just a lost and rather hungry traveller.”

The Student snorts. “How long can you last?”

“Dunno. I’m not as strong as I was- a day, maybe? Twice as long, if I knew there was something on hand. That always makes the waiting easier.”

“I’ve a box of honey-cakes in my pocket. Although possibly, Parabola isn’t where any of us want to be at present.”

“Heating honey destroys the virtue,” the Herald says. “Innocent, I assume you’re able to produce a fire without burning my cabin down?”

“Any engineer could do that much,” the Spy says, sounding very nearly affronted. “All right. That buys us a little time, but how do we spend it?”

“Figuring out how to help our last shipmate,” the Herald points out. “Irritating as he is, that Assassin still counts as crew. Anyone know where he is?”

“No, but there’s an obvious way to do it,” the Spy says, pulling the speaking tube off the wall. “Murdoc? Where are you?”

There’s a rather huffy sound at the other end, as of someone reluctantly aroused from sleep. “In my cabin, attending to the goat. A far less irritating companion than you some days, I feel obliged to point out.”

“You would,” the Innocent murmurs. “Um-”

“Never mind,” the Herald says. “Even the stupidest ghost would think twice about taking on a heptagoat. He’s probably safer than we are.”

“Oh? Are you in danger, Innocent mine?”

“I’m not your- oh, angels and ministers of grace!” the Spy bellows; and the Herald can’t help wondering what phrase has been so hastily substituted for. “Yes and no. Our old Captain’s haunting the place and we’re all staying in the Herald’s cabin until he’s gone.”

“Ah. A ghost on the loose.”

“Maybe.”

“Probably,” the Herald interjects. “So unless you’re very much better at ritual than you’ve given me any reason to believe, stay put until the Captain comes by with the all-clear.”

“There’s a dragon outside,” the Assassin says, dreamily. “I should think the solution was obvious.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes, Innocent. Let me see now- the valiant steed, the noble knight, all I need is a lance. The blade of your favoured knife ought to do. So fortunate I happened to pocket it.”

“Is that what happened to it? I was tearing the hold apart all morning, trying to find it!”

“You could just wait long enough to let the Captain sort it out,” the Student rebukes him. “If old captains do this as often as all that, I’m sure mine’s clever enough to sort it out without further intervention.”

“Don’t assume fair play,” the Assassin warns. “I certainly never do- and besides, wouldn’t you rather assure your beloved’s safety at the cost of a little meaningless honour, than risk everything for nothing?”

“That is exactly what you shouldn’t be doing,” the Herald informs him. “Her only real danger is if we start arguing the point, lose faith in her ability to protect her own vessel - and if you try any foolhardy interventions such as you keep hinting at, you’ll do nothing except endanger everyone.”

“Well, perhaps I’d get on better with a Captain such as him, eh? He didn’t think so much of your Seeking, did he? Give up all this mewling and jati telegraph nonsense for a proper Neath ship at last, with blood and thunder and slaughtering every monster we come across. Innocent, you can’t have thought I’d have changed my colours so much as that.”

“I’d hoped you had,” he says, sinking back against the cushion pile. “I’d thought that maybe it’d be enough for you, now, if we just kept hacking at each other’s hearts- but that’s never going to be enough for you, is it? How many victims will you take, before you’re satisfied?”

“How many stars in the sky? Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a Captain to go rescue.” The click of the tube is very sharp.

“I’m going out there,” the Student says. “If he is, I have to.”

“I’ll come too,” the Herald agrees. “Innocent, stay put. Too much chance of something nasty trying to repurpose your hungers, you’re a loose cannon at present.”

“I’m not a coward,” he says, flushed and resentful.

“You’re also not a cannibal. Stay that way,” the Herald says, and undoes the lock of her door.

“There is no way this is our ship,” the Student says, peering out the crack. “Herald, you’ve opened a portal straight to the Iron Republic. Or something hideous like that.”

She peers outside herself. “This is worse than I thought. I mean, you're wrong, it's certainly our _Clipper_ all right, but...changed. Reflected.”

In place of the few yards of unassuming corridor, stand walls high as a cathedral; but enclosing the same space, and looking suffocatingly narrow. Woolen tapestries hang off them, smelling of lanolin and mildew; when the Herald pokes at one with a pen, a tendril of yarn jerks the implement from her hand.

“Fascinating,” she says, watching the wool wrap itself around the foreign object. “Like the permutations of a spider, that’s what this most resembles.”

“...for two pence, I’d say shut the door and let ‘em handle it after all,” the Student mutters.

“No chance,” the Herald says. “Clean combat for a ship’s fate is a ritual I’d never meddle in, but we’re dealing with something far more dangerous here. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he must have given himself wholly over to the Fingerkings…”

“Do you hear galloping? I thought I had to be imagining it, but-”

“...yes.”

They stand in the doorway and watch the apparition approach. Scorching a path through the woolens, blinding the eye with its dazzle: a black-suited knight, mounted on the back of a large and notably furious goat.

“I think you’re missing out, not seeing this,” the Student informs the Innocent.

He comes out from under the duvet and stares. “Murdoc, just- how? How is it that however ludicrous my life gets, however much it starts violating the basic laws of probability, you somehow manage to always make it just that little bit stupider?”

“It’s a talent,” the Assassin informs him, with an unnecessarily smug grin. “Now are any of you coming along, or shall I go rescue the princess by myself?”

“...I’d get very annoyed with you, only it suddenly occurs to me that I don’t know what you’d call a royal personage of indeterminate gender. How is it that London hasn’t come up with such a word in two generations?” the Student says, very thoughtful.

“Can we worry about etymology later?” the Innocent asks. “Only I think we’d better get moving.”

“Nonsense. No such thing as the wrong time, for discussing etymology…”


	13. chamfer, the parabolic grind

They get lost, naturally.

“I thought you were meant to be a navigator,” the Assassin says, rather cruelly.

“By instinct, yes, but also by chart and compass. The Unterzee has some rules in its modulations, which this place hasn’t- and you’re not making things any easier by prancing across the landscape like a drunken guinea-pig.”

“He got us over the abyss, didn’t he?”

“There is that,” the Herald admits. The terrain standing in rough place of their ship’s ladder has become a huge circular waterfall, with the contents of whole seas cascading downwards, falling away to unknowable depths. Nothing short of a goat’s sure footing could have found safe passage through those rocks even once, let alone eight times.

“...if you can’t even muster a tolerable counter-argument,” the Student says, “you’re more out of it than you think you are. I think we’d better stop and rest. It must be hours we’ve been walking now.”

“Wish I had my wristwatch,” the Innocent comments. “This is exactly what’s wrong with relying on a ship to tell time for you- I mean, not that I ever had quite this exact scenario in mind, but the point stands.”

“What’s a wristwatch?” the Student asks.

“Something that’s gonna be invented next year, if I don’t miss my guess- damnit, I’ve been trying not to let you in on anachronisms. Guess I’m pretty worn out, too.”

Their Innocent’s been holding up bravely, but he’s noticeably tremulous, distracted with hunger- they’ve taken care to travel at his pace- and it’s more him that the Student’s worrying about than their redoubtable Herald. “Another good argument to make camp, then.”

“A little further,” she says. “By the blueprints, it can’t be much further to our storerooms, or the place paralleled by them at least- we might be able to find supplies of some sort there.”

“As though I’d let him consume the matter of a dream,” the Assassin scoffs. He rears back his goat, pats the Innocent graciously on the head. “It might entrap you. Never fear, my Innocent, I promise to make sure you keep starving according to schedule.”

“Should I thank him?” the Innocent asks the Student, ducking out of reach. “I honestly can’t tell at this point.”

“...you’re the Seeker. You tell us.”

“I do see something in the distance,” the Assassin announces self-importantly. “A glittering crystalline ruin, vast and luminous in its beauty.”

“Ignore that,” the Herald says. “That’ll just be the glass I dropped there earlier. Always remember to tidy up.”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

“A small matter about duelling captains distracted me- ah,” she says, inspecting the sporing of a vast encrusted mass. “I suppose we might have realised that left alone, fungal crackers would revert to fungi. Doubtless even less edible than before.”

“If this was the Surface I’d be all right,” the Spy comments, with an exhaustion deep enough to pass for intoxication. “There wasn’t a place on earth where I wouldn’t have been able to cope...any of you guys know how much I miss that? Knowing I could fall out of an airplane and turn up trumps anywhere I happened to land?”

“Innocent, you’re babbling anachronisms again,” the Assassin warns.

“I miss airplanes,” he sniffs. “Or one particular- ow!”

“...who slaps a Seeker?” the Student asks, after a few minutes. “I mean, it’s obvious you have a death wish, but there’s easier ways to go.”

“Old bad Surface business,” the Assassin says, his gaze fierce. “You must have noticed the Spy’s fetish for unnecessary sentimentality. It was unhealthy up there, and it’s downright dangerous here.”

“You’re a fine one to go talking to me about sentimentality. If this whole Neath business isn’t the most spectacular case of gaslighting in history, I don’t know what is,” the Spy murmurs. “He never frightened me, you know. Scammed me and borrowed money and stole my favourite hockey stick once, but he never would have scared me like you always do. Like you like doing.”

The Student shoves himself protectively between the pair of them, before the Assassin can attempt further bodily harm. “You two don’t make the slightest sense. If it was love, or hate, I’d understand, but you two enjoy some sort of- mutation? It defies categorisation.”

“He’s all I’ve got left from home,” the Innocent explains, very tired.

“He’s the only soul that matters in the whole blasted cosmos,” the Assassin says. “And we’re certainly not leaving the Neath until I can bring him round to thinking the same about myself.”

“Ah,” the Student begins. It seems the perfect opportunity to pontificate a little, ask how a Seeker’s lover can possibly be oblivious to the ultimate end-point of the search- but he pulls himself up short. It doesn’t sound as though it’ll do anyone much good to mention.

Besides him, the Herald allows her hand to slip up to her face, forefinger drawn across her lips. For once, he keeps his silence.

And contemplates the Spy’s peregrinations with great interest.


	14. declined neither to the right hand, nor to the left

If it were only her old Captain, she wouldn’t have any trouble. Her knowledge of the zee-code is just as thorough, just as innate; her competency as a zailor more than adequate; her skill with the whip, sufficient unto requirements.

They circle each again, under an open sky the same colour as their _Clipper’s_ paintwork. A whole universe of their ship, and under different conditions she’d like nothing better than to explore it fully. Stride across the wide dreamscapes, tasting of salt and peligin, learning to inhabit her charge with the spatial awareness of a vested Captain.

But this green-eyed monstrosity won’t let go, won’t stop trying to inject itself like poison into the homely corpus of her vessel. “You abandoned your ship. Officers and crew and all together, we’ll have no truck with you.”

“Alice,” the thing croaks. “Doesn’t the naming burn? Wouldn’t you give up anything, to have your own safe anonymity back again?”

The prospect dances before her, like moldering honey; an attractive affair once, but no use to man or bee or beast now. “That’s water long since flowed and forgotten. You’ll find no traction down that road.”

The lightness of heart she feels at his departure perturbs her more than anything else that’s yet happened; it means he’s up to bad tricks, abandoning her to attack the company instead. She can only hope they’ll last out, as long as it takes to give them succour.

“I’ve something going for me that you haven’t, though,” the Captain says quietly. “The _Clipper_ , she knows who’s rightful Captain.”

The evocative, high kean of a whistle trills on the wind in response; she kneels down on the ground. Feels the totality of home and weapon and shrine, surging through and for her.

This is her ship; and none will take it from her.

*****

“Of course not,” the Student says suddenly.

The others are asleep, after a meager meal of burnt honey-cake; they’ve made camp in a forest whose trees resemble the layered stacking of crates (to an imaginative inhabitant of the Beth, anyhow). At least there’d been plenty of firewood.

“I wouldn’t have them as they were, after what we’ve been through to reach here. They’ve suffered too much for my sake, and if we’re being honest,” he smiles, “I think I’m good for them, too. Sorry if I can’t help being smug about it- I mean, they really are rather the catch.”

A cry of self-doubt; a cry of uncertainty.

“Yes, yes, we wouldn’t have planned this out if the choice had been our own- but we came that close to not having each other at all. My quest was only ever going to end one way. They’ve shown me there’s more to life than that- and more to death than that, too, if it comes to it. So argue all night if you’ve a mind to, but you’ll find no treason here.”

For the rest of his watch, all is silent.

He has a most relaxing time, journaling down the experiences of their travels for his beloved’s future reference.

*****

“There is nothing in your power to offer me that I could possibly want,” the Herald states.

Dreams crackle in the fire; peering at them, she can catch rich glimpses of hidden truths, experiences for the craving.

“All right, I’ll rephrase. There’s nothing you could offer me, for which I’d pay the price you’re asking- no, don’t pretend. You’re asking me to enter a duel which is not mine, for stakes that have nothing to do with me. I’d sooner jump into a shark’s gullet than commit this sort of unwarranted intervention.”

Ravens chatter.

“If she dies, then she dies. Remember, this isn’t the only ship on the Unterzee- if need be I’ll take my wisdom and my Innocent elsewhere, you understand? So there’s no way to threaten me.”

A chirp.

“Oh, don’t give me that. You’re still forced to work through the Welshman; and he’ll tear his throat apart with his fingernails sooner than hurt his old shipmates. Josiah,” she says. “Don’t make me invoke you. I’ll do my best to let you off lightly, but you’ll have to make some effort.”

For the rest of her watch, all is silent.

She wakes the Assassin at the end, not without reluctance. Staving off the dreams is proving very difficult, now. 

*****

“I don’t make deals,” the Assassin says. “And frankly, I don’t care.”

The voices sing about him, speaking of temptations innumerable; but he’s busy sharpening and polishing his lance, and that’s a matter fit to keep him occupied for far longer than the few hours he has tonight. Perhaps they’ll be lucky and have two such nights, so that he can slaughter somebody with a properly feted weapon. That’s about as far as his sense of the fitness of things should go; and it perfectly contents him. 

His is a noisy watch; but as he doesn’t give two figs about that one way or the other, no harm’s done there.

*****  
“Look,” the Spy says, not bothering to keep the humour out of his voice. “Innocent or not, engineer or not, I’m still in the Great Game- you never can resign from that one- and if you think I lasted in that profession by fussing about who was calling the shots, you’ve clearly never been an agent yourself. I ran my missions and didn’t ask questions.”

The wailing, he thinks, is strangely reminiscent of piano strings. “Loyalty? Certainly- but in people, not in institutions. I trusted the old Captain, I trust the new one, whichever one of them comes out on top is fine by me. I’m not going to make the mistake of thinking I should arbitrate a matter I know nothing about.”

He scrapes cinders off the metal mirror they employed as a frying pan earlier, eating up the last of the honey-cake crumbs. “No, see, that’s what’s wrong with the world, thinking you have to have opinions about everything in creation. I save having opinions for the things that matter to me, and I’ll care about those passionately- but not the rest. This is a pretty good example of rest, if you ask me.”

“Are you talking to them?”

“Murdoc, I thought you’d gone asleep.”

“Only a trick,” the Assassin says. “That is quite enough of that. No one else enjoys the privilege of haunting you unmolested.”

He rises mightily, lance raised to the heavens; and bellows a welcoming war-cry.

“I was having such a good nap,” the Student complains. “You’re supposed to keep watch, not wake us all up for no reason.”

“He has a point,” the Herald intervenes. “We’re very near to dawn, can’t you sense it? That’ll be apotheosis.”

“Not a bit of it.”

“All I’m noticing is hunger- hang about,” the Innocent says. “Across the field, there, isn’t that our Captain?”

The Student lugs himself up and starts running, at a rapid if somewhat ungainly pace. The Herald laughs as he goes.

“Idiot. Never mind, he can’t do much harm now. We’ve all won through on one pretext or another- whatever our reasons,” she adds to the Assassin. “What made you change your mind?”

“About what?”

“He’s not very good at paying attention,” the Innocent confides in her; and frowns in concern. “You’re looking exhausted- did you get any sleep at all?”

“Not in Parabola, Innocent,” she says with a yawn. “I told you that already. Too danger- too dangerous,” she whispers, and trails off into stupor.

He takes her hand, holding it protectively. “Murdoc, keep an eye out. She’s vulnerable now, and I don’t trust that I’d ever come back, if I lost control here.”

“This entire situation seems poised very delicately,” the Assassin says. “Suppose I decide this is the ideal moment to slaughter all your shipmates, and zail across the Unterzee with only you for accompaniment?”

“Here’s something you’ll like better,” the Spy says coldly. “My sanction. Make sure none of them are hurt, and I won’t question your methods.”

“You mean that? Angelic Mac- oh, you don’t catch me out as easily as that,” the Assassin growls. “All right. But remember you promised.”

He mounts the snuffling goat, and gallops across the field (easily overtaking a gasping Student). Towards the edge where the light is; a Captain, clad in shifting irrigo regalia, holds her whip on the vast outline of a green-inflected dragon.

It charges at her; and she bats it on the muzzle.

Just once.

*****

“Well, honestly, I’ve no idea what the rest of you were so worried about. She’s my ship,” the Captain says, stroking the smooth metal of the wheel. “You could have all stayed snug in your beds and saved a lot of trouble.”

“Sort of wishing I had,” the Student pants; he’s still winded, and less than pleased at his disorientation. “That was it, though? No more tricks from the old man?”

They gesture round the familiar setting, the simple lines of the _Clipper’s_ bridge. “As you can see, we’re sailing the Unterzee. And on our own ship rather than some winged Parabolan monstrosity. All’s well that ends well, Student. I’ll take us in to port, the lot of you can go and recuperate.”

“Wake up,” the Innocent says, shaking the Herald. “Remember? Being careful about sleep?”

She groans, and rises. “Thank Stone my cabin’s only yards away, instead of miles- you’re all secure, Captain? Please don’t say you want any rituals done just at present, I’d be liable to mistake blood for seawater.”

“Go sleep,” the Captain says. “And that’s an order.”

The Herald favours her with a salute, before sliding down the ladder. Something crashes rather impressively.

“I’d better go help her,” the Innocent says, visibly holding back laughter. “Take care of the ship, I don’t want to wake up and find you’ve burnt out my engines or anything.”

“The way you make them sing? Don’t worry on that score.”

“Well, I think I’d rather do my recuperating right here,” the Student says, when they’re alone. “Captain. You do look rather smart.”

“No fraternising on the bridge. I’ve a reputation to consider now, you know.”

“More’s the pity.”

He blushes at their glare. “Ah- I mean, I’ll be around later, you know. For any orders that might occur to you to give, once we’re safely anchored and have some time to tidy up.”

“Now that’s more like it. You'll go far.”

"With you in charge? I'd expect nothing less."

*****

“A Heptagoat on a cutter. For that piece of endangerment alone, I ought to have had the right of things,” the old Captain mutters, looking around the steel-reinforced cabin with no little disgust. It does noticeably reek.

He’s defiance itself just at present, but that wouldn’t last, the Assassin knows. Torture isn’t so much in his line as the killing part of the business, but no doubt he could rig up a few devices that would have the fellow begging away like a crippled Urchin. Given time and trouble.

“Unfortunately,” the Assassin says, “I haven’t the time to do you up properly. It might occur to the Spy any minute to come revoke his sanction, and then I won’t have this killing to hold over his head, later. So we’ll send you off in style. Just a drop of castigator venom.”

“Molly,” the Captain whispers, and falls silent.

“Applied to the business end of a knife. Pity I can’t use the Spy’s own, but he might scratch himself with it, and we couldn’t have that,” the Assassin remarks, pulling on a heavy gauntlet. He rummages through a drawer that clanks and spits sparks. “Yes, I think this one ought to do. Ivory, indifferent workmanship, I’ll drop it into the zee afterwards. Make a mark of it on the chart, so I can come back in a year and hear about the rumours of mysteriously dying fish in these parts. Now wouldn’t that be fascinating? Knowing you’ve caused that to happen, holding the secret close, and nobody else ever knowing why? I mean, telling you doesn’t count,” he adds, as an afterthought. “You’ll be long dead by then.”

It’s not the best killing he’s ever done, the Assassin finds. The old man doesn’t even try to struggle.

How terribly unsporting. 


	15. regret like a slink of silver

The Captain guides them back to the safe routes, up to Vienna and down to Port Carnelian. Professing that it’s all for the money, naturally; but the comforting routine does much to repair their Innocent’s weakness, with the peaceful watches and Surface rations.  

“I mean, you’re all coddling me these days,” he says, toying with a dish of gelato the Herald’s whipped up for him. “I’m feeling kinda spoilt.”

“It’s much better than the alternative,” the Student says, somewhat indistinctly from under his hat. (He’s picked up something of their Captain’s ability to relax totally, when circumstances warrant; and they’ve acquired his unceasing zest for awareness, in turn.) “Believe me, we’d all rather stuff you silly than have to worry about the consequences of your starving.”

“You and the Herald, maybe. The Assassin keeps saying I’m getting too fat for fieldwork- d’you think so? It’s been so long since I needed to do any.”

The Student doesn’t even bother to look. “No. Why do you still listen to him? He harangues you, he teases the life out of you, you clearly don’t get on with his morals. If you just said the word, the Captain would happily toss his hide off at the nearest port. Or into the zee, if you’d rather.”

“I think he’ll do less damage with me, than in any other company. There’s no prison that’d hold him, and he hasn’t killed anyone the whole time he’s been with me. At least, I think.”

The Student’s rather inclined to doubt that- he’s been on watch one too many nights, to witness the Assassin returning from shore leave with blood under his nails and a grin on his face. “That’s a dreadful reason for staying in a relationship with somebody you can’t trust.”

“I can trust him. He obsesses over me too much to ever let me go- when I realised I was going to be trapped down here, I figured that at least I’d be free of his presence. So much for that. But at least this way I know where he is, and when he’s staring at me I can stare back. It’s worse having to look over your shoulder and never knowing.”

There’s a bitterness in his voice now, a ragged tone in danger of falling into tears; and the Student suspects their Innocent never meant to say so much. He goes to the trouble of lifting his hat, looks. Engineer rumpled, gelato still uneaten.

“You’re frightened.”

“As the Herald would say- doom. I can’t get away from him.”

“But Seeking-”

“You know what, I’m starving,” the Spy says rather loudly. “Think I’ll finish this after all.”

He plunges a spoon into the chocolatey stuff and eats wolfishly, looking calmer with each bite. There’s days the Student wonders whether there’s anything at all to seeking, besides hunger and a mirror for the searcher's traumas; but he’d need further case studies to consider the matter properly, and those aren’t easy to come by. Not in a nicely civilised state like their Innocent, anyway.

“Is all going to be well?” he asks, in an undertone. “In the end?”

The Spy wipes ice crystals off his mouth, and offers up a wink.

*****

“All right, if we’re doing this, we’re doing this,” the Assassin says, slapping a dispatch box down on the galley counter. “I hired an Urchin to go through the Scrolls of Saint Arthur for me, they seem to know what they’re doing better than the other factions. No objection to out and out violence, and less fussy than the Revolutionaries.”

“I’ve been helping him,” the Herald says evenly. “The Student’s been helping him.”

“And I don’t trust either of you. So. According to the scrolls, he needs seven candles, seven scars- well, he’s certainly earnt those- seven stains and seven memories of chains. How far did we get with all that?”

“The Scrolls are more in the way of advice, than a strictly regimented routine as such. I doubt any Seeker’s ever followed precisely the same path.”

“Perhaps that’s why they’ve never gotten very far,” the Assassin says. “Now if you’ll tell me exactly how much progress he’s made, we can map it precisely according to this blueprint. It’s delightfully specific.”

The Herald curls her lip, but draws the papers close. “The memories of chains, he already possessed from his Surface days. The scars, he had more than enough of by the time you left the Elder Continent- I suppose you were enjoying yourself, killing him when the Mountain was so close he couldn’t help but revive?”

“I may have been taking advantage,” the Assassin says shamelessly. “When he did come right back to life after the first drowning...all right, I indulged myself a little. But I have to understand that he couldn’t start working on the candles until he’s drowned his soul seven times, so what’s with all the betrayals?”

“You’re being much too literal. I told the Student the same thing- these aren’t all happening in the order that one plucky researcher thinks they ought to. We’re halfway through Saint Arthur’s, but he has Beau’s and Cerise’s already. Having yourself thrown down the well is an unorthodox way of acquiring the latter, but it seemed to work out well enough.”

“Why haven’t I seen these candles, then? They’re not in his things, I’ve searched those most carefully.”

There are no cephalopods in all the Unterzee, the Herald considers, quite so grasping as this stalker. “Any Seeker could walk by their light. No one else would perceive it- look,” she says. They’ll have to let him try something for the Innocent’s sake, lest he intervene more harmfully. “If you’d like to help, I’ve no idea how we’ll persuade him to gain Erzulie’s. That requires a trip to the Nadir, and after losing his name down there last time, he’s terrified of the irrigo.”

“I know his name.”

“We’re all aware of that.”

“And so- when I call it, he’ll come running back to me? All right, I do like that idea.”

Two birds with one stone, the Herald reflects; and hopes she’ll be able to keep on protecting her Innocent. Every day shows the Assassin in sharper, clearer light; a foul thing, whose devourings are more thoughtless and obscene than any Seeker’s.

But then, opening the Gate was never going to be easy. Just one more obstacle, that’s all the fellow is.

“Next time we’re in London, then,” she offers; and holds herself still against his teeth-baring smile.

*****

“Why didn’t you tell me? I’d never had taken the Seeking this far, if I’d known I was going to have to go down there again.”

“You were with an irrigo addict last time,” the Herald says. “I’ll accompany you myself- many people manage longer trips without much harm.”

“I can’t give up my memories. They’re all I have left.”

He paces across the engine room, clutching greasy tools to his heart; she’d deliberately picked this moment of safety, to introduce his terrors. “There’s no price, I’ll swear that to you. You pluck the candle in the dark, where no one sees, and leave without paying.”

“Then you won’t be with me after all.”

“I’ll guide you out, though. Consider it this way, Innocent. Aren’t there any memories you’d just as soon lose, after all this time? Invoke them, free them, and lose them to the irrigo?”

“But those memories are myself, and I’m not willing to give that up...well. There’s one thing I hadn’t considered,” he says, suddenly. “The next trip to Port Carnelian, I have to talk to the Philanthropist. The activation of the telegraph, she’s been hounding me about that for a while.”

“Not planning to let her down gently, are you?”

“It’s something a little more dramatic than that,” he says. “I guess I might need stripping of those memories, if I’m to stay myself…the Student’s in on it, you can ask him for details.”

“Why haven’t you talked to me about it?”

“...you want me to continue Seeking. Find a way out of the Neath, open the Gate.”

“Certainly.”

“Suppose, just suppose, I find I don’t want to leave? Herald, the one sure way to make me run is to close off all my escapes. Don’t ask too many questions, please.”

That’s all he’ll say, in response to all her entreaties; and she can’t help frustration at his Great Game instincts. Understandable as they are.

But she does make him promise to take her along for his talk with the Philanthropist; and that much, he agrees to.

*****

An upper-class Carnelian parlour is no fit realm for a gang of wharf rats, even bathed and clothed ones; and they know it very well. The LBs stick close by the engineer, who shows not the slightest sign of anxiety about having the small creatures running up and down his clothes, or poking noses into deep, intriguing pockets.

To her credit, neither does the Philanthropist. The strained smile on her face stems from rather different concerns, the Herald’s positive. (Perhaps it’s just the weather. Her own temper’s suffering from the strained, sullen atmosphere; she resolves to stay quiet. Let the Spy play this out himself, whatever troubles he’ll bring on himself.)

“Nearly a year now. Several fortunes, including the better part of my own. Port Carnelian’s reputation on the line- it’s known across the Unterzee now, how we’ve thrown all our financing and backing into this project. Tell me, Spy. How soon will the cable be operational?”

He chews thoughtfully on a piece of fruitcake, breaks off a piece and offers it to one of his companions. “As matters stand now? Today?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Never,” the Spy says, very calmly. “Not a thing’s happened, they haven’t twisted together a single bit of cable. Who watches the watchers, you understand, you shouldn’t have put all your trust into an unreliable flibbertigibbet like me.”

Her teacup does not drop out of her hand. She has thrown it, very deliberately. “You seemed utterly trustworthy.”

“What I did was to help nurture a society that’ll be able to produce it for you. A much more valuable use of time and money, I’d say- so it wasn’t exactly a lie. Face it, you’re in too deep to back out. Port Carnelian can’t afford to just drop the whole project now.”

“There’s such a thing as throwing good money after bad.”

“There’s such a thing as losing face across the entire Unterzee. The cable will work, once it’s built- so you’ll just have to give them enough money to do it for real this time. Everyone understands that engineering projects have time and cost overruns, if it takes a few more years that’ll make sense. And it’ll be a lot better for your image than admitting a Seeker and a pack of rats took you on one of the biggest scams in Neath history.”

“So you have just been taking me, then. And my government, for all the money you could get.”

“Pretty much, yeah. It did mostly go to the rats, like I told you right at the start. And a couple of choice meats for me- but then, you knew who you were hiring.”

“If all this wealth’s gone to Pigmote, what’s to stop us going there? I’ve a contact with every zub zailing, we could have it for the asking.”

“Ah, ah,” the Innocent says, sipping his tea. “You’re forgetting the god of rat-sending.”

“The- excuse me, what?”

“The god of rat-sending. To whom all things postal and ratly are sacred, the deity now worshipped by a multifarious community of rats gathered from across the Neath. Belief has an awfully direct relationship with effect, down here- go on,” he says fondly to the rats. “Give her a taste.”

The Herald has seen many a ritual, in her day. Mysterious encounters galore, rites uncounted, the frail gods of her birthplace and the strong ones of the Neath. Divinity is as much a part of her life as her own flesh and blood, daily praised and daily appreciated.

But it takes all her lifetime’s commitment, to Salt and Stone and Storm, to hold her own in the face of what happens next.

Rats, singing. First just the ones in the room, but others outside, until it seems the whole port must be stilled, all silenced, in the face of that reverberating note. Squeaking at the pitch of blessed violins, anointed choirs.

The Innocent chuckles to himself, in the corner; the Philanthropist frowns and draws the curtains. Her house looks out on the port waters, fraught and churning now with heavy violence.

“False-stars above,” the Philanthropist murmurs. “The zee’s never looked like that before. It’s just what we’ve always feared, the whirlpool coming to drown the city - Innocent, we must get down to the docks. Find one of the zubs, ride it out in safety.”

“There’s no time,” the Spy says simply. “You can see how close it is, we’d never make it. Trust me,” he promises her. “The house will be safe.”

The Herald can’t imagine what’s prompted him to say that. The waves are rising to impossible heights now, huge enough to crash across half the city, and then- and then-

_apotheosis_

vast, mighty figure of a rat, high as a mountain and furred with driftweed, rises in the harbour; and its brethren sing to it. Not a sound challenges their dominion- no slap of waves, no screams of terror, only an ever heightening harmony that the Herald fears will burst her eardrums, through sheer high beauty-

The god speaks, in answer to invocation. **No message lost. No wanderer forgotten.**

There it ends, with the water dropping back into the harbour, and sound resuming, and the regular passage of time continuing once again; and yet all is most assuredly not the same. A phrase from Whither’s teaching rings in her ears: _is there any time more captivating, than the birth of a god?_ And the countersign, too: _is there any time more dangerous?_

The Philanthropist has slipped off her fanciful sofa. Waiting paws hurry to meet her.

“I thought- I thought to give only what I shouldn’t miss. I thought I’d store up merit enough to pay for all my sins,” she says, weeping openly. “I’ll give it all up. I’ve lived my whole life in the miraculous and never seen it, how could I have been so blind until now?”

“Will you come, and follow us?” a rat asks her. “Intervene for the downtrodden, and forgotten?”

“Anywhere,” the lady vows, stripping off her jewels, her Surface-silken jacket. “Give everything away to the poor and needy, carry the message in my own flesh. Innocent- how could you know this would be?”

“I didn’t,” he says gently. “All I could do was hope.”

(By every drop in the zee, the Herald swears to herself. This isn’t a betrayal such as she’d have ever imagined.

But it has the Innocent’s fingerprints all over it.)

*****

By teatime, the affair’s nearly forgotten. Port Carnelian is overused to wonders, after all; a two-hundred foot water rat that has singularly failed to rain down destruction is hardly worthy of the Governor’s attention.

Nearly, but not quite forgotten; and a small band of believers has gathered at the Philanthropist’s house. Swearing to live in harmony, hold their possessions in common, deliver letters and offer great kindness to rats. There are worse beginnings for a cult, the Herald supposes.  

“Why weren’t you affected?” she asks the Innocent, in a private moment. “I could barely stop myself, from swearing vows I should have regretted- and I’m otherwise committed already. You haven’t that excuse.”

“Who, me? Herald, I’m an atheist.”

He laughs a little; but immediately sobers at the Philanthropist’s approach.

“I should have told you, long ago,” she says. “You asked me to let you know if I ever heard about a certain expat like yourself. A smuggler, short and mustached, who spoke English but didn’t seem to know the fashions?”

A swift, eager hope flashes across his features, before he calms himself. “He died? If anybody could have managed to die around here, he’d manage the trick.”

“He’s alive,” she says. “Jailed, for swindling a tiger. They were going to execute him at dawn- I couldn’t bear to think he’d ensare your affections,” she confesses. “It was such a petty love, mine. I’m sorry.”

“That gives me all of fourteen hours to execute a prison break,” the Spy says. “Absolute eons. Shouldn’t be any trouble- thank you. Can't thank you enough.”

“You’re shaking,” the Herald tells him.

“I’ve got to see him. I don’t think,” the Spy mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think I’ll be able to think, until I see him again.”

“I hope you don’t mean that literally. Breaking a convict out of an Elder Continent cell won’t be any picnic.”

“There isn’t a cell on earth that would keep me away from him, now I know he’s here.”

It’s more than a boast; it’s a challenge. A warning to anyone who might stand between him and his desired; and she has at least one candidate in mind who'd like to stop just that. 

She hopes nothing ill will come of it.


	16. the heart of the courses we lost

“He didn’t ask you, because he figured you might decide he was better off that way,” the Student tells the Herald.

They’re sitting in a dusty carriage outside the Carnelian prison, ready for a thoroughly textbook escape. The Spy had fixed up a cart full of darkdrop coffee, stuffed his dandelion-tinted mop of hair into an unobtrusive guard’s cap, and wandered inside, whistling all the way.

How this plan will resolve in the successful acquisition of a prisoner, neither of them is entirely clear; but they’re bound to back up their shipmate.

“Because of your fierce devotions- he had a notion about the coming annunciation, and he made me promise that if he came back to the  _Clipper_  full of crazed loyalty to a rat cult, that I’d tie him down and not let him go until we hit the Forbidden Quarter. That was the one thing he thought would be egregious enough to require an irrigo remedy. But as he seems to have come through the experience unscathed, I don’t know how you’ll get him down there now.”

“Maybe this new piece will be of some use in the game. I’ve never seen the Innocent look quite so- hmm.”

“Quite so relieved?” the Student suggests. “Running towards something for a change, instead of away.”

“Away from that Assassin, for instance. Student- I think we’re agreed on that, aren’t we? Under no conditions do we allow him to follow the Innocent North.”

“I shouldn’t have thought that needed saying. It seems obvious enough.”

“Always best to verify.”

They fall silent, for a few minutes. The Spy comes back outside, still whistling, and starts unloading the contents of his cart. Coffee pots are gone, replaced by boxes of peculiar and inexplicable design.

“Can’t believe how much stuff he brought along. Geez, I’d have to confiscate the lot of it for anachronisms if nothing else- but it’s just as well really, he’s been bribing them to keep postponing his execution. Thank a couple of your gods for me,” the Spy says. “If he’d died before I heard he was here, I don’t think I’d ever have forgiven myself.”

“But where’s he?” the Student asks, while the Herald investigates. Clothing and books and cheap, tawdry trinkets, most of it.

“Oh, still inside. Got to have everything ready for the escape before you actually try it- and he wouldn’t forgive me for leaving any of this junk behind.”

He goes back inside.

“He’s definitely in love,” the Student says.

“You think everybody’s in love, just because you happen to be.”

“True enough,” the Student says, leaning back on the cushions. “But really, that man’s in love- what?” he asks, noticing.

“The Assassin’s followed us,” the Herald hisses. “I do not like where this is leading.”

He is not whistling. He speaks harshly to the rickshaw driver who brought him, tosses the payment into the dust. Goes to the prison gate, to start quarreling harshly with the guard there.

“Somebody had better help the Spy-”

“No need,” the Student says, in a whisper. “Look.”

Over the wall, a little to the left of the gate, the edge of a rope appears; then a good deal more of it, along with the Spy who’s holding it. The Herald waves a frantic warning, doing her best to disguise the motion as a casual fan against the heat.

He catches her drift and looks down, at the Assassin so close by. Goes white and hauls himself back atop the wall again.

“I can’t look,” the Student moans.

“You just be ready to move.” The Student’s the only one with any experience of carriages, from a few rowdy drinking parties at the college (Summerset prefers theirs mobile, so that people will think only Benthic does that). They’re relying on him to make the expensive hired horses run like, well, horses.

The Assassin tires of quarreling, hits the guard and goes inside the prison. Almost immediately, another figure pops up over the wall, swinging outwards on it from the rope. This one’s shorter and stockier than the Spy, with a humorous face that can’t manage to look entirely serious, even when his whole attention’s clearly bent on not plummeting twenty feet straight down.

He looks round the street, catches sight of them and takes one hand off the rope to wave cheerfully at them; the Spy, just peeking out again, cringes and ducks below the parapet again.

“Should have worked out a plan that didn’t involve heights,” the Student comments.

“He was in rather a hurry. I’m sure he’d be glad to listen, next time you want to put your oar in for a prison escape.”

“Hardly seems worth it,” the Student says, watching the newcomer sliding easily down the rope. “When it’s going as smoothly as this.”

The Spy follows, taking care not to look down; his companion gently catches him at the bottom, swiping the prison cap to place atop his own perfectly good one. They slip into the carriage with no one giving them a second glance.

“That went better than I figured,” the newcomer says, in a pronounced Surface accent (not quite the same as the Innocent’s, but the Herald reckons it an unimportant distinction). “Nice to meet you. Name’s Jack Dalton.”

“Jack!” the Innocent says disapprovingly. “I told you. No names, you’re just a smuggler or something until I can work out a proper use-name.”

“You said, no names with anyone I didn’t trust. And if I can’t trust two people who’ve kept you alive in a madhouse like the Neath this long, who can I? He takes a deal of looking after,” the man confides, in an impishly winning tone. “Can’t tell you how many times we landed up in trouble back on the Surface.”

“You mean, how many times I bailed you out of danger,” the Innocent says; but he’s laughing as he says it, looking at his companion with fond happiness. The Herald tries to recall when she last saw him looking that comfortable, that content, and decides the answer might be never.

“Speaking of which,” the Student says. “We are going now, yes? Only the Assassin’s on the prowl-”

“Gods, yes, let’s get out of here. Jack, um- Murdoc’s been on my tail. You don’t wanna hear the details.”

“I guess not,” the Smuggler says, with an exaggerated shudder. “Poor ole’ Mac, invents time travel and still can’t get away from the guy. Or me, for that matter.”

“It wasn’t quite like that. I think it’s something to do with that mountain- you were in the Ammukash too, right?”

“Sure was. Craziest stunt I ever pulled, getting Phoenix to pay for a trip to nowhere- Pete was pretty worried about you, you know that? Or I don’t think I’d ever have conned him into picking up the tab. What beats me is, if we’re in the past why couldn’t you have just left a note saying that you were okay, for us in the present? Your amigo would have appreciated some warning like that- I mean, they don’t even have airplanes down here yet, that’s horrifying.”

“They have zeppelins,” the Spy says quickly. “Cheer up.”

“I’m gonna sulk. Airships aren’t the same thing at all as a zippy little plane.”

“I know,” the Spy says, very apologetic. “You left all that behind, all the trappings of civilisation, land up stuck in the wrong century just to check if I was okay. I’m sorry. I wasn’t worth it.”

“Oh, shut up,” the Smuggler says, very self-satisfied. “Course you’re worth it. And I’ll put off the sulky fit for some later date, when I don’t have anything better to do- Mac, you would not believe how I’ve missed you. Nobody around to fix all my stuff, or lend me dosh or get into scrapes with me, it was terrible.”

“If you’re showing such admirable restraint just on our behalf,” the Herald says, eying their careful separation with amusement, “you needn’t. We won’t object.”

“Not breaking any Victorian mores or anything?” the Smuggler inquires.

“Every time the Innocent says anything about Victorian mores, it always ends up being the exact opposite of what I’d expect from London society. I can only assume that the population that didn’t descend through the spiral was far stuffier.”

The Smuggler whistles. “Innocent, huh? That’s just you all over, it really is.”

“They do try to pick names suited to your personality.”

“Mmm-hmm. How rude are they allowed to get? Cos I’m sure I can think up an eye-opener or two-”

He’s like that all the way back to the ship. Boisterous, talkative, happy to fill in any gaps in the conversation with easy speech; and the Innocent watches him with glad, hungry eyes, as though a diamond mine and a carnival and a Spite hold-fast were all bundled up together in one bouncy package. Exactly what the attraction is, the Herald can’t quite follow.

She’d expected another enthusiast for the Game, or a sustained ascetic (perhaps not a million miles away from herself, in truth); almost anyone but this silver-tongued rascal, who gossips about his sins as though they were virtues. But the Innocent’s happy, and that does go for a great deal.

“Best get under cover,” the Student says suddenly. “There’s some sort of roadblock coming up.”

The Smuggler doesn’t need telling twice; he dives out of sight, beneath the light silken foot wraps (an affection carried over from cold and misty London). The Herald pulls the curtains shut and moves over, closer to the Spy; they’ve agreed on a cover story if necessary, a young couple out for a ride on the Continent.

It shouldn’t be so unbelievable a tale. The Innocent’s current flush of happiness would light a decent-sized fire.

“What’s the interruption?” the Student bellows, doing a very credible impression of an irritated cabbie. “I’ve places to be, and passengers to take!”

“Word from the prison,” one of the guards says. There are many of them, and a bored-looking tiger accompanies them. “An escapee’s on the loose, very dangerous. We’ve orders to bring him back right off.”

“Ah,” the Student says. “Well, I don’t recall seeing anyone of that sort, I was driving. And my passengers probably wouldn’t notice if I went straight into the zee. But shall we ask them?”

He leans back and whips open the curtains again, and keeps an extremely straight face at the sight.

“Three of them,” the guard says in disgust. “Do you suppose they’ve come up for air since you started?”

“I expect not,” the Student says, sounding profoundly indifferent. “What’s the prisoner look like?”

“Short, mustached, round and rather vicious looking.“

“I see,” the Student says. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out. Good luck to you.”

“And you. You’ll need it, trying to collect a fee from that lot,” the guard says.

“Thank you-”

“Hold up!”

The Assassin trots past them, this time mounted on a genuine hoofed charger. He looks even stupider on that than the goat, the Student decides. “This is it. We’ve found them.”

“Damn,” the Smuggler says, leaving off kissing with a sigh. “I was really starting to enjoy that, too.”

“How nice that somebody was,” the Herald mutters.

“I’ve just got him back,” the Innocent says, not relinquishing his hold (more like a death grip than an embrace, the Student can’t help observing.) “You can’t take him away from me now. He’s mine.”

“When are you going to learn,” the Assassin asks. “That there’s nothing you can have, that I can’t take away.”

“Hang on here,” the Smuggler interrupts. “I think I have a say in this.”

The Assassin looks as though he might employ the long ceremonial sword, dangling at his side; but he collects himself and nods thoughtfully. “You might, at that. Would you like to hear all the details about how long we’ve been together? As shipmates, as roommates? Lovers? Would you care to hear the details of the way he looks when he sleeps, or how he smiles at you after waking?”

The Smuggler wriggles out of his companion’s grasp, pale shock on his face. “Murdoc? Mac, you’d never.”

“It was- I was- you have no idea how lonely I’ve been.”

“The man I remember,” the Smuggler says, with dignity, “wouldn’t have listened to that monster. The one I gave up my whole life for, and sacrificed everything I ever wanted just on the off-chance of rescuing- I guess he was an illusion, all along. So you’re another agent in the end. No better than he is.”

(There’s a crowd gathering, the Student notices. Stories hold attention, in the Neath; and people can tell this one is rapidly climaxing.)

“Jack,” the Innocent implores, fear written across his face. “Please don’t be drastic. Let me explain.”

He nods, once- and jumps out of the carriage, tearing up the street hell for leather. The Student curses, and whips the horses round into action; by the time he’s managed that, the Smuggler’s lost irretrievably into the helpful crowd, through a maze of street carts and back alleys.

The next half-hour is the most nightmarish he can remember since an unspoken stint in Parabola. Doing his best to direct the horses in response to the Spy’s distraught commands. Hunting for the lost prodigal and fearing dearly what it’ll cost their Innocent if they can’t find him, before the blood-soaked assassin does-

“What are you doing?” he shouts, as the Herald clambers past him and onto one of the galloping horses (when did she learn to ride, anyway?)

“Simple scrying,” she calls back, waving a knitted catch with a hank of hair dangling off it. “I’ll find him first, believe me!”

She cuts the traces; and it takes all the Student’s ability, to stop the lopsided carriage crashing straight into a wall.

“I guess I have to trust her,” the Innocent says.

“You’ll have to.”

“I’ll follow her.” He takes the other horse, and sets off even faster.

Which leaves it on him to figure out how to get this carriage back to the mews, and all the luggage in it back to the ship.

(Naturally, they don’t give him the deposit back.)

*****

“I take it he’s dead,” the Assassin says, that night.

All five of them gathered in the engine room, since the Innocent’s refusing to leave it. He pounds furiously away with wrench and hammer, though there’s nothing very much the matter with it.  

“Of course he’s dead,” the Innocent says, sweat pouring down his face. “They have a nice little trick at the prison for escapees who try to double back- there’s an execution stone kept inside the gate itself, to drop down. I saw the whole thing. What was left, even the tigers wouldn’t touch.”

“Except his ridiculous hat, I notice- must you really wear that thing?”

“Yes,” the Innocent snaps. “I’ve done it again. I haven’t kept safe the people who mattered, I never do- you’re the only one who ever stays! Why you? Why does it always have to be you?”

“You deserve me,” the Assassin says, in a sweetly facile tone.

“I’ve heard enough,” the Captain says. “Crewmember, you’re confined to quarters. I’ll come and tell you when I think you’ve had enough, and don’t expect that to be any time soon.”

“As if I have the slightest interest in your rules-lawyering malarkey. Innocent mine,” the Assassin coaxes. “You’re free now. Nothing to hold you back from a really uproariously existence, have you noticed? Just like mine.”

“Do you have a gun?” the Spy asks, wiping away moisture.

“Always,” the Assassin promises, offering up a handsome period revolver. The Spy takes it, hefts the weight.

“I said enough was enough,” the Captain says, pocketing the weapon themselves. (The Innocent doesn’t put up much resistance.) “Now once you’ve both cooled down, if you’re intent on ripping each other’s guts out I’ll see that you may. But not aboard my ship. I won’t have her soiled like this.”

“Too lazy to clean up the blood, is that it?” the Assassin sneers.

They bring out the cat-o’-nine-tails, their badge of office, and whip him smartly across the face. “Don’t be stupider than you can help. You’d be the one to mop it up after. Now get moving.”

He goes, finally; though the Spy shows no trace of relief at the door shutting.

“I should have saved him,” he says, pressing his head against the hot sheen of metal. “It should have been me…”

“Will you need a new use-name?” the Herald asks, without empathy.

“Be a little obvious, wouldn’t it? It can wait until after my last betrayal.”

“Wasn’t it two more to go?” the Student asks.

“Six,” the Spy insists. “And this one worse than all the others. I’m sorry, Herald, I knew you wanted a bloodless Seeker, and I guess you won’t get your wish.”

“You’re blaming yourself for the actions of others. You couldn’t have saved him.”

“I could have killed the Assassin, for a long time now. I didn’t. Jack was right to be horrified- I’ve been living with him, persuading myself to believe in him, and if I’d had the good sense of a rat I would have been spared all this. We could have been walking through Port Carnelian right now, wandering through the mountain-light, and instead…”

“And instead you refused to be a murderer,” the Herald says. “That is not a matter to reproach yourself for.”

“If I knew I’d leave him, maybe it wouldn’t. You know what the worst part is?” he says to the Student. “That tomorrow, or the next day, or the week after that, I’ll wake up and need the Assassin back so badly, just because he’s the only one who knows my name. Need him back enough that I’ll forgive him anything. Even this. Take care of your Captain, Student, because I don’t think you know how lucky you are.”

Further conversation becomes impossible at that point; the engines are making too great a racket. The Student hesitates, then moves to the door, glancing at the Herald.

She places herself neatly on a cushion, and begins to knit as though nothing at all had happened.

“I think I do know how lucky I am,” he says to the Captain, that night. “But I can’t blame him for saying it…”

*****

“Why are you still here?” the Innocent asks, three days later, when his worn body won’t pound any more bolts, and he drops down on the waiting cushions.  

“To remind you about things. Life. Irrigo-“

“It’d be a betrayal to his memory. To forget all about him-”

“You need to finish up the Seeking before you can have your last betrayal,” the Herald says. “That means pretense. It means finishing up your voyages, tying off the loose ends, and completing all your business in the Neath. Take your revenge properly, Seeker, and don’t ruin it with half-measures.”

He nods, with the peace of thoroughgoing exhaustion. “You’ll teach me, Herald?”

“By any gods you like, I’ll swear that.”

“Not by any gods,” the Innocent says. “By him.”

He falls asleep, before she can ask whether the lover or the betrayer was meant; and so she puts him to bed, instead. Makes sure there’s a good supply of food on hand. He’ll be hungry when he wakes.

“The betrayal was omission, not commission,” she says. “I’ll see you bloodless to the Gate, if I have to murder the fellow myself.”

For three days, she’s been planning out how.

Just in case.


	17. invocation

It takes all of them to rouse their failing Seeker back to some semblance of functionality. All four: with the Captain aiding first, as is only right and proper.

“He thought of everything,” the Innocent breathes, as he opens box after box. A smile, despite himself; there’s evidently too much love here for him to ignore. “Everything I’d have wanted along, if I’d known I was going to be stuck down here for good. My favourite clothes, extra knives, music- well, more his tastes than mine but it’s still good.”

“Bottled music?”

“Squeezeboxes get much smaller. Here,” the Innocent says, performing an oblique ritual on a golden-tinged device. “You put these in your ears, and flick this on- it’ll be louder than you’re expecting.”

“Ah,” they say, after a few moments. “A hymn of some kind?”

“Something like that, to hear him talk. He took Dire Straits way too seriously.”

“As any zailor ought to.”

He laughs. He laughs, passionately and hard, for much longer than the little quip deserves. Long enough that they start pondering his stability.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally. “It’s just…I loved him. More than I ever let on. I wish I’d told him, I wish I’d kept him alive, I wish a lot of things, but…”

“Carry on.”

“For one, I guess I’ve been mourning him ever since I arrived. I thought I wouldn’t see him again. I knew I wouldn’t. And somehow, it didn’t make any difference. He was still there for me, any time I needed, telling me that it was okay to remember how to laugh. How to stay sane whatever happened- he was an urchin through and through, got kicked around and abused a lot as a kid. And he never let any of it get him down,” the Innocent says, with a near-beautific awe. “That was grace, if you like. And if I let myself forget all that now, it’d be worse than anything.”

He spends a long time, talking about his unexpected gifts; and the Captain considers it bloody boring, but listens patiently to the recital.

Captains have to do these things, after all.

*****

“For after I’ve gone North. Not before.”

“Your memoirs?”

“My letter,” the Spy explains. “A long, ongoing letter to the Smuggler, which I’ve been writing since I got down here.  Which I’ll probably still be writing when I get to whatever’s past the Gate.”

“And you want me to keep these?”

“I want you to read them,” the Spy says, slapping the twelve books down on the desk. “I want somebody to bear witness. Understand just how important he was to me, when I couldn’t understand it myself until way too late to do anything about it- and also, there’s just a chance. A small one. Probably stupid, but I couldn’t bring myself not to ask.”

“Oh?”

“You’re young, you probably won’t even be in the Tomb Colonies yet by the time a hundred years are up. You’d be in a position to do something to save him. And correspondingly, me.”

The Student frowns. “That could cause a paradox. A whole wasps’ nest of problems incumbent on that-“

“Shh. Shh. Don’t tell me it’s impossible, or why you can’t do it, or won’t do it, or how immoral it would be,” the Innocent says. “Just take it. Read. And give me a little hope that in a hundred years, you’ll have thought about it for a long time, and maybe pen a little letter to Phoenix that’ll save his life. Let me go on thinking that, please.”

“In a hundred years, you might have come to terms with it.”

“Try me,” the Spy says grimly; and the Student promises by every book in the Summerset library.

*****

In the end, the Spy goes down into the Nadir alone after all.

He does so mostly to settle a small but extremely impassioned bet.

The Herald sits on one side of the entrance to the Nadir, equipped with a heavy-duty set of goggles to block out the radiations; the Assassin sits on the other, with hefty lead blinders across his face. This is, he says, because he is hardcore and rather extremely macho.

Her attempt to elucidate the definition of macho having gone precisely nowhere, they are now ignoring each other. He pens the Innocent’s true name, his birth name, across a page of notebook, crossing and recrossing the page with ink smirches. She sits and knits, daintily.

Every minute she calls out to the wind. “Innocent.” Nothing more.

Nothing more; but when the Spy comes back up, eyes tightly closed against the irrigo, she’s the one he bumps into.

There’s no end of excuses she’s prepared, of course; she didn’t mention that the calling must be verbal, rather than written. The Nadir’s rules say that only the last baptised name counts. She told the Spy to go to the left rather than the right, when he came out, and he obeyed. Enough lies to taunt and tease and hold the Assassin’s attention for an entire evening, while the Innocent slips away for some much needed rest and food.  

But the Assassin doesn’t even ask her what happened, just slaps his notebook shut and laughingly berates the Spy for his fouled sense of direction. Never seems to even recall the terms of their bet.

“A good thing I had your name, or you’d never have made it back,” he says; and the fraught, careworn Innocent doesn’t even try to disagree.

Seventh betrayal, she tells herself. That will make all well.

It has never been such a struggle for her before, to let a ritual play out as it must.

*****  
“Herald,” the Innocent asks her, late that night.

He isn’t sleeping any longer; long drafts of Summerset exam brew do him instead, and she suspects it has nothing to do with grief. Everything to do with the way that the Assassin has moved out of his cabin and invaded the small engineer’s alcove, leaving his mark at last. She wouldn’t sleep either, under conditions such as that.

“Are you safe?”

He blinks at her in surprise. “Sure. I mean- well, maybe we’d just better talk.”

She takes him up to her room, and has barely sealed the wards when the Assassin comes banging on the door, demanding to see the Spy. She shouts a few nonsense phrases about irrigo radiation, and cuts off the outside sound.

“He’s more possessive now,” she observes. “Angrier.”

“It won’t be for much longer,” the Innocent points out. “Destin’s, at Mutton Island. And then up to the Chapel of Lights, and points north after that. I thought I’d need to do some shopping before I went…” he chuckles. “But Jack took care of all that for me. Some supplies, some kind of transport, that’s all I’ll need.”

“You’ll have to be subtle about it, if he’s not to notice. I’ll have another ship ferry what you need out to the Gate, so that it’ll be waiting there when you arrive.”

He nods in acknowledgement. “Not a bad idea. I don’t think he knows that he can’t come through with me…and I don’t want to tell him.”

“With any luck, you won’t. We’ll smuggle you out before he wakes. It might even be a good idea to set zail as soon as you’ve landed, just to be on the safe side.”

“Not too good for me if I can’t open the Gate, though.”

“Do you expect that to be an issue?”

“No,” he admits. “It’s so close now…it knows I’m coming, I think. There’s a shock whenever I touch gant now, bright enough to light a cabin. It’s very pretty.”

“It sounds it.”

“There’s just one thing I’m worried about,” the Innocent says. “You see…I’ve been hearing voices. Or one particular voice. It wasn’t happening before I went to the Nadir, I swear.”

“Whose voice?”

“Jack Dalton. He never leaves me now, I can see him just as clear as you,” the Spy says, gesturing at nothing. “Leaning against the wall, laughing at me that I’m even questioning his existence. I know he’s not tangible, I know you can’t see him, but- he’s there, isn’t he. There’s a ritual for this, or something.”

She tries very hard, to sort through her vast stock of lore to invent an explanation that could be anything other than her Innocent driving himself mad with grief; and cannot think of one.

“It’s a very personal affair,” she lies. “You won’t find the lore in any book, it’s considered too sacred a matter to write about. But he’s there, never you fear.”

“Thank you. There you go, Jack. Told you somebody would back me up.”

“I wouldn’t mention it to the Assassin, though.”

“Oh, don’t be daft,” the Innocent says. “Jack’s got a better sense of self-preservation than that.”

He smiles, and stares happily past her elbow. “Do you mind if we stay here tonight?  Only he feels safer here, and I can’t say as I blame him.”

It will rather interfere with her plans for a long, cleansing cry. “Of course not.”

“Thank you.”

He scoffs a heartier dinner than he’s managed since Port Carnelian, and gives himself over to a long sleep at last, coiled on her bed.

She fixes herself a very hot tea, cracks open a tome on metallurgy, and watches over him all the night. 


	18. 010010000100010101011000

Mutton Island’s a far better experience for the Seeker, this time. They whisk him away for unspeakable rites with cats and wine and feasts; he returns a fortnight later with noticeable reluctance.

“Don’t know what I ever fussed about,” he mumbles, in uncertain drunken tones. “I mean, ‘sides the eating people. But that was alright, told ‘em I was vegetarian. Works every time.”

“You stink of liquor,” the Assassin observes, very disapproving. “And worse- did it occur to you to bathe once over the entire two weeks?”

“You weren’t around to nursemaid me,” the Spy counters, tripping off the gangplank so awkwardly he nearly sends it flying. “Dear old mother Murdoc, come to hen peck. Maybe I oughta have let you come after all, they might have taught you a thing or two about how to relax.” He giggles. “Or they might have et you. That’d be fun too.”

“Fun is not getting smashed out of your skull, MacGyver. That’s one thing I always respected about you, you took life with such magnificent seriousness.”

“Ah, go n’ boil your head. Wonderful century for insults, thissun…funniest thing about my destiny, d’you know that? Cos the Seeking had one, and the Captain had one- not this one, the last one- and they said they all cancelled out and it didn’t make any sense, that I must be fated or summat. And I said, good. Cos if there’s anything I’d hate, it’s getting stuck in somebody else’s destiny….”

He wanders off below decks, singing a patter song to himself; and the Assassin grinds his teeth. “You said that a naming held power, Herald. He didn’t even seem to notice that one.”

“You’re the only one left to call him that,” the Herald notes. “Don’t forget, the power of the chanter is also a component. A Judgement will have more luck with cold-calling than a Beloved, no matter how good the fish’s Correspondence is.”

“Are you saying I can’t do it?”

“I’m saying he’s not listening. Try again when he’s less drunk.”

She regrets that piece of advice almost immediately. There is, after all, a chance that the Assassin will actually believe her.

*****

A week later, when repeated and mind-numbing calls at all hours of the day and night have confirmed that the Spy does not, in fact, pay attention to his Surface name any longer, she does finally lose control and ask him why.

“A friend lent me his,” the Spy says, giggling. “One that Murdoc’ll never think to say.”

(She has a pretty fair notion what that one has to be.)

“So that’s why, then? I may owe him,” the Captain says wearily. “For keeping my ship going so smoothly, and fixing up a contract with Pigmote Isle that’ll have us set for life- but I will be more than glad when that Seeker’s off my ship. He’d have broken Josiah’s patience long ago, that’s for sure and certain.”

“You mean, the Assassin would have.”

“All right, I do- but they go together. Glad to see the back of him as well.”

“Are you planning a clean sweep of your officers?”

“Of course not,” the Captain says, surprised. “You’re as good a navigator as I’ve ever zailed with, you’ll have a berth here as long as you care to hold it. Though if you do want to find yourself another ship, give us a bit of warning first.”

“One ship’s as good as another,” the Herald assures them. “Exploration’s well enough, but this whole Seeking matter has distracted me from my proper work. I ought to be getting back to that.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Card-playing,” the Herald says, briefly; and doesn’t bother trying to explain.

“There’s a point,” the Student says thoughtfully. “My doctorate’s a hopeless mess now, I doubt I’ll ever graduate Summerset. The enigmas I did manage to acquire all went towards buying me back from the Fathomking, and I haven’t had so much of a sniff of one ever since. Will this trionfi business of yours sustain two researchers?”

The concept’s genuinely never occurred to her before, but the more she considers it, the better she likes it. They’ve been working together for long enough on Seeking now; she’s come to respect his research and way of thinking. “It would be a trifle flat with nobody to argue my conclusions with, I’ll admit to that.”

“Wonderful,” the Captain says. “Pity about losing such a good engineer, but perhaps we can dig up a crewmember who knows the right end of a wrench. I’m thinking a Cook for replacement officer, instead.”

“They wait all their life for one train and another happens along almost instantly,” the Student says, shaking his head. “Met up with one at some garden party or other, and she turned out to be in the Game as well. I think our Captain was feeling sentimental.”

“You said yourself, you wouldn’t object to finding out if she was as good in a bed as a kitchen,” the Captain avers.

In response to the Herald’s questioning look, the Student can only give a sheepish shrug.

*****

So her future’s all fine and rosy; but there’s still a long voyage up to the Chapel of Lights to go, and the Herald finds that protecting her Innocent is no easy task.

Her cabin, her inviolate sanctuary, ceases being one after the Assassin steals the Captain’s master key, and lets himself in one night without so much as a by-your-leave.

“I want him back, Herald. You’re hogging him, and I never did like to share.”

“I won’t have him very much longer, will I?” she points out. “I’m certainly not going through the Gate.”

“So you say, which is why I don’t believe you,” the Assassin says. “The Captain and Student might not care, all dewy-eyed for each other as they are, but you’re different. I see the way you look at him. Jealous much?”

“My place is the Neath,” she returns, “and I wouldn’t think of leaving it.” Or wouldn’t have thought before this whole affair began, she does not say. “He is, so there’s an end to it,” she finishes. “But we always did get on well. It’s only natural that we’d want to spend what time we have left in good company.”

“Natural to take him into your bed? There’s Neath perversions, and then there’s perversions- and I always took you for an asexual, too.”

Hardly the point at issue. “It is of no concern of yours, whether we do or no,” she says evenly. “He doesn’t want to be in yours. That ought to be obvious.”

“I’m taking him with me,” the Assassin tells her, almost in a snarl. She wonders what manner of self-deception it requires, for a body to follow a Seeker and still believe that they’re calling the shots. “I’m taking him with me now, in fact. So wake him up.”

She could call the Captain in on this, demand an authoritative reckoning, but that would mean surrendering her private vendetta, and she’s too far gone in hatred to allow that. This will stay a private matter. “Wake him yourself. You can see he’s right here on the bed.”

He walks over, pawing roughly through the bedclothes, and splutters in disbelief. Wipes the residue of a sticky pot off his hands, onto the Innocent’s shirt sleeve. “Honey? We’re out zailing, miles from any port, and you thought to share a honey dream? Parabola’s not safe without a decent anchoring, anyone knows that- suppose he forgets where he left his body?”

“He thought it was safer than dealing with you any longer. Don’t worry. I’ll wake him at the Chapel of Lights.”

“You had better.” The Assassin lifts a crystal vinaigrette, a fragile little kickshaw, and smashes it against the wall. The Innocent doesn’t stir.

He brings a fragment down, to slice open flesh; but she blocks it with a heavy tome on colour theory, bound in thick metal. It glances off, scoring blood across his hand.

She expects to have to fight then, to call on what knowledge of violence she possesses (doubtless not enough); but he stops there. Looking at her with something that might be termed respect.

“First blood,” the Assassin says, and leaves without further ado.

She sits down on the bed, willing herself to sober stillness. The Innocent rolls over.

“For a moment there, I thought I’d have to stop pretending. If he’d hurt you-“

“I’m glad you didn’t. That would have escalated matters, and we’re so close to being rid of him- Innocent, how? With that man after you, how did you ever avoid descending to his level?”

“Because the innocence was all that kept me safe,” he says, after a while. “Because he wanted me to succumb, and I just wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. Guess it was good training, in a way. Taught me to cope with anything, even the Neath- or whatever I’ll find past that Gate.”

He’s still relaxed, still unmolested. His isn’t the heart beating with raucous fear, nor is he slick and damp with sweat. “I’ll have to think up another solution for you. If he has the Captain’s master key he can go anywhere he likes aboard this vessel. I should have considered that possibility from the start.”

“I could always move back in with him,” the Innocent says, yawning. “Not so long now. And Jack will look after me.”

She envisions a dreams-soaked victim locked in their engine room, frantic from hunger and talking to walls. About what any other Seeker this far along in the process ought to be experiencing, if she’s being honest with herself. “If it comes to that, I suppose you could- but we’ll see if he believes my story. Every hour he does is an hour you don’t need to be in his company.”

“I guess so. Running away from problems always was a fault of mine…though I feel sort of bad, eating up all your luxuries.”

“Innocent, if the only price to pay for keeping you intact was a crate or two of supplies, I’d happily pay triple.”

“Wonder when I turned into sort of a coward,” he murmurs. “Guess that’s sorta Jack’s fault. Maybe I’m turning into him, a little.”

If devolving ever further into a wild fantasy hallucination is what it requires to keep her Innocent vaguely sane and happy, supporting it is all she can do. “Borrowing might be the better word. For as long as you need, and then you can give the quirk back after.”

“That’s a good way of putting it,” he agrees. “So what’s for tea? That’s a question that always worried him a lot.”

“Cheese and cake again, I’m afraid.” Pity she can’t offer a less restrictive diet; but at least it’s all Surface stuff, and better calculated to calm his hungers than any amount of Rubbery Lump offal. “There might be some toffee, if I can remember where I left it.”

“Could be worse,” he observes, as she measures out a careful ration. “Did I ever tell you about inventing a weasel fricassee?”

“You mean, with a lucky weasel? Unusual, but not unheard of-“

“No,  no. This was back on the Surface,” the Innocent says, biting hungrily into his supper. “Just plain regular weasel. I did have a pretty weird life even before coming down here.”

In all her concern for his welfare, she’d temporarily forgotten the motives that have led her to such violent sacrifices. “Do tell me all about it.”

He does; and she listens, while regretting how few nights they’ll have left.

*****

“Five crates of supplies? Student, why didn’t you tell me?”

“It didn’t come up on the scrolls? Or not the main scrolls- I thought those were apocryphal,” the Student confesses, diving into his notes. “Ah. Sorry, we were wrong. I’m aware that butters no parsnips- what’s a parsnip, anyhow?”

“This,” the Captain notes, “is exactly what’s wrong with a cutter. Even accounting for  what the Herald’s smuggling, we’d be hard pressed to reach the Avid Horizon and then Mount Palmerston before running out of supplies. As it stands, we’ll just have to turn right around, resupply and come back later-“

“We will do no such thing,” the Assassin says. “You have enough to reach the Gate, and that’s all that matters to me. I’ll have no more lies and wasted time.”

“You seem to be forgetting this is my ship,” the Captain answers him, very coolly.

“You seem to be forgetting it isn’t- oh, but you didn’t know, did you? Because I haven’t told you yet. This entire ship- the hold, the supplies, the hull, the entirety of this worthless cutter you all adore so much is in my name. A very nice little hex,” the Assassin explains. “A hexadecimal edit, as you might call it if you had the slightest comprehension what I was talking about.”

The Herald chokes on her coffee, chokes harder at the Student’s attempts to revive her. Eventually collapses off her chair into something very much resembling a dead faint.

“Yes, I thought that’d give her a shock,” the Assassin says pleasantly. “Of course, I could use it to give us all more fuel, or move us straight to the Avid Horizon, or something delightful like that- but I won’t. You’re on your own when the Spy and I leave, and whether or not you live after that is no concern of mine. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve an Innocent to kiss awake.” He leaves.

“Captain,” the Student asks, from the floor. “What in the name of Storm and Salt is a hex?”

“Don’t even ask.”

He does not like the surrender in their tone. “But we’re not quite babes in the wood. We’re a good company, we’ve taken on all sorts of dangers-”

“What’s the worst thing you can think of, Student?”

He frowns. “Probably being turned into a Rubbery again.”

“Now imagine that happening to the entire Neath,” the Captain says. “In a blink of an eye.”

“…so that’s what a hex does, turn people into other people?”

“No, but it gives you the smallest possible notion of exactly how devastating one is,” the Captain says. “Hush now. And pray to every god you’ve ever heard of.”

“Pray for what, exactly?”

“That something deals with that Assassin. And double-quick, too.”

“Where did he go?” the Herald murmurs.

“Don’t know,” the Student says. “Best stay still for a while, you’ve had rather a shock-“

“Stay put,” the Herald orders, all but falling out the door.  

They stay put.

*****

There’s a note on the Herald’s bed, when the Assassin comes in.

_Dear Herald. Got impatient, couldn’t wait any longer. Went out to talk to the priests._

“Not a bad attempt,” he says, crumpling the message. “But unfortunately, she didn’t realise just how abominable your handwriting is. Come out, Innocent. Olly oxen, or whatever it is you lot say.”

No one replies. He checks under the bed, among the dresses, taps the walls. In a methodical way, as though he’d be content to spend all day at this.

There’s a squeaky skidding outside, of somebody descending the ladder pole at top speed. The Assassin kicks a few tiles, experimentally.

The Herald bursts through the door, uncharacteristically panicked, even cowed- but regains her senses at the sight of him. She sits down on a cushion pile with an air that might even be considered casual.

“I would like to know where you stashed him, Herald.”

“Does it even matter?” she asks, sullen in her loss. “Can’t you simply hex him back here if you like?”

“I’ll be honest,” the Assassin informs her. “That sort of fine-tuning isn’t especially simple. I might easily lose him his mind, or his left wrist or his head, if I tried the brute-force approach. So we’ll have to save that for less delicate matters.”

“I’ve spent my existence dedicated to the craft of gods,” she says. “And now…”

“Ah. And now, you find yourself appalled by someone who possesses none of the requisite virtues, nothing worthy to consider me a god, except for the power itself? What an amusing dilemma for your theology. I suppose a person like me really oughtn’t to exist- and yet I persist on doing, somehow! Explain that, if you like.”

“You found a hex editor at a- let’s say a jati market, in London,” the Herald says dully. “You’ve been working against time to figure out how to use it.”

“Exactly so, my dear Herald. Making it through the Gate is all very well and good, but I’d just as soon not wander off into the unknown without a protection or two. Although if this Innocent doesn’t come out soon,” the Assassin says, raising his voice, “I might decide this Neath suits me very well after all. Given a little tidying up first. The company of this ship, for instance…”

“All right, that’s enough.”

Their Spy comes walking through the door, clad in peaked cap and gant leather, as unreadable as the Herald’s ever seen him. “Messing up my friends like you always do- you know what? Won’t work this time. You’re lying through your teeth.”

“It’s not considered very wise to say things like that about a god,” the Assassin says. “Blasphemy, even.”

“Herald, he’s bluffing. There isn’t any hex.”

“You can’t afford to believe him,” the Assassin interjects, smoothly. “He’s a thoroughgoing atheist, you know that, he wouldn’t believe in the divine if it danced a jig in front of him. However positive he is, should he be wrong you risk damning your whole little Neath forever- and that would be such a shame. Don’t listen. Believe in your new lord and saviour, instead.”

She looks between the two of them, distraught and bewildered.

“If he really had anything like that,” the Spy says, “the first thing he would have done was to employ it on me. And he hasn’t, because I hate him worse than ever. Don’t be superstitious.”

“I would hardly begin my experiments with the one being in this world I happen to find vaguely interesting,” the Assassin counters. “I might wipe out your fascinations by mistake.”

“Each of you,” the Herald says, very pained, “tell me what you want. Simply, please.”

“Nothing much,” the Assassin says. “Just a quick trip up to the Avid Horizon, that’s all. Thrash it out with the others, I want to be underway in an hour.”

“The last two candles will take longer than that.”

“Then however long the priests take to get through their mumbo-jumbo- and I’ll be on hand to make sure they’re quick about it, mark my words.”

“And what do you want, Seeker?” the Herald asks.

“For you to believe me. That there is nothing, but nothing, to be afraid of.”

“Listen to him much longer,” the Assassin says, eyes narrowed, “and you’ll be first on the list as soon as I find the delete button.”

“You know what kind of man he is! He tricks, he lies, he’ll stop at nothing to get his way- Herald, tell me that you don’t believe him!”

She licks dry lips, stares at them each in term. “There’s one way to settle it very simply, of course.”

“Oh,” the Spy says. “Well, you could have said so-”

“Opening myself up, to the whole trinity at once. Let them all hear, and come, and tear down the false god. The Neath hasn’t lasted five thousand years without surviving threats such as this,” the Herald says. “This is what Whither’s disciples are for. All the questions, all the training, the willingness to encounter the unknown- and in the end, sacrifice yourself to stave it off, if that’s what the situation calls for.”

“Call,” the Assassin remarks, calm and very dangerously. “If you care to try your luck.”

“I’ll need a knife,” she says, and looks over at the Innocent.

He tucks a hand deep inside his jacket; but doesn’t pull out the familiar red-handled weapon. Instead, a shard- uncut, unpolished, but with a provence unmistakable to the trained eye.

“Guess you might as well have this.” He looks over at the Assassin, abruptly weary. “It was going to be a present for Jack Dalton. You know, sorta glittery, maybe worth a couple bucks, but obviously that’s out the window now.”

“So you’re bequeathing it to another friend to cut her own throat with. How very entertaining,” the Assassin says, smiling.  “How fitting. I’ll enjoy this.”

“Not the throat,” the Herald says, uncomfortably conscious of how far her voice has dropped, how hoarse she sounds now. “The breastbone. It’s a rather ticklish business, I wouldn’t trust either of you to do it properly.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Self-sacrifice, Assassin, not murder.” She lies herself down on the bed. “Both of you leave now.”

“I’d rather stay and watch,” the Assassin pouts.

He doesn’t get the chance to complain further. The Spy cracks him a hard knock-out punch, shaking out his wrist after the impact.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” the Herald says. “He’ll hurt you for it after.”

“As though that matters now! Herald, I’m not going to let you throw your life away on his lies!”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she says, looking at the implement. “From the Mountain, isn’t it? And you’ve been wearing it against your heart all these months? No wonder you’re so youthful.”

“…oh.”

“Quite.”

“Huh.”

“Now get out of here,” the Herald orders him. “I want to meet my gods in peace.”

“But he’s lying,” the Innocent whispers, despairing.

“But it’s not a threat I can ignore. You’ve your duty, Seeker, and I’ve mine.”

A long moment passes, not love but simple comradeship, the acknowledgement of sacrifice; and with all his cleverness, he cannot think of anything to say.

So he nods, and goes, dragging the unconscious Assassin behind him; and watches for something he knows not what. It comes in the shape of a flaring light, white and perfect; and a woman’s scream that goes on, and on, and on...

He would bow his head, and weep; but the tears seem burned out of him, and he merely sits without thought or motion, till the Assassin pulls his sleeve.

“I really was lying the whole time, you know. Marvelous irony, don’t you think? But look at it this way, now that she’s dead, there’ll be that much more by way of supplies for the others.”

“Talk to me,” he adds, after a while. “I recognise you do enjoy a good sulk, but there’s always too much of a good thing.”

“We have to go to the Chapel,” the Spy says eventually. “For a lesson about betrayal.”

“Betrayal? Wonderful. It’ll be so very educational for you.”

But the look the Innocent turns on him is cast-iron cold, and just as immobile; and the Assassin can’t help but wonder whether the Spy has so very much to learn, after all.

Ah well. No great matter.

They’ll have new worlds to conquer, soon.


	19. shall burn, and all be made well

An excellent day, the Assassin reckons.

First, that whole business with the Herald conveniently offing herself (all right, it’d caused him a few perturbed moments, but nothing had happened. Presumably, Neath gods didn’t bother manifesting for any follower stupid enough to panic at a few irrational suggestions.)

After that, the Chapel of Lights! An immensely congenial place, and one he wouldn’t have minded discovering earlier; the priests nod at him with familiarity, recognising one of their own, and he reciprocates. So much loftier-sounding than an assassin, so much more high-toned….a priest of death, yes, he can see himself in this role. A pity they’re rushing onwards so.

But he’s never heard of a gate that didn’t swing both ways. They can always come back, after their first foray into whatever lies beyond.

(He does not think about the vacuum of space, about his Spy’s lack of cider, about the thousand and one issues that might occur to another. His life runs on instinct, moment to moment, and so far it’s pleased him well enough to act without planning. Even his continual failure to kill his Spy had worked out well enough, in the long run.)

So they gather in the chapel, the four survivors. A Captain, blind to everything. A Student, excited as he is frankly terrified, and utterly, utterly kerflummoxed when the ceremony drops a Searing Enigma into his lap. His Spy, who recites the set responses, with an unmistakeable instinct for passages he hasn’t read. Craving, hunger, drawn across every line of his features.

(Which is why he’s let this Seeking affair carry on as long as it has, why he’s prepared to accede totally to his beloved’s wishes in this solitary regard. It brings them closer together, more so than he could have ever dreamed.)

So his Seeker gains his sixth candle, and warms himself by its invisible light (he recalls someone telling him that, not that it matters particularly). Which nearly completes the quest. All that’s left is Saint Gawain’s candle.

(He reads books from the back, sampling the last two pages with delicious climax. Endings interest him; the rest is all so much time-wasting.)

There is a choice offered his Innocent, now. The slaughter of the priest, or the waiting sacrifice, or the loss of his own head, to be shorn off that fair body and filled with wax. It’s that last choice his Innocent will make, of course. The Neath hasn’t held him nearly long enough, to reconcile him to easy murder. (One day: but even the Assassin knows that piece of reconciliation will take a long time. A hundred years, perhaps.)

There is no choice.

The Assassin strides down the path, shoving his beloved from harm’s way. Taking the sword from a startled, gasping priest, cutting off his own head as he might carelessly lop a flower. He has not faithfully dealt death for so many years, for his expertise to fail him at the crisis.

“I know you’re planning betrayal,” he informs his Innocent afterwards, when the rites are done and they’ve finished stitching his head back on. “I look forward to seeing mine. So long as it isn’t going North without me- but now you’ll never have the chance.”

Every time he thinks that glorious, heart-rent cry of understanding must surely be coming to an end, his Seeker merely wails it all the louder.

Let it ring. The sound’s sweeter than any music.

*****

“This is what love looks like, Innocent mine. There’s nowhere you can go that I can’t follow.”

A day and a night to the Avid Horizon. The Assassin is preparing an unnecessarily generous breakfast for himself, not stinting from their dwindling supplies. His Spy is eating nothing, for the sake of the shipmates. Eying the rat jerky and Beloved butter with ravenous longing, flinching at his body’s insistent, clamorous demands.

“Not even tea? You’re sounding positively cavernous.”

“One of them might get back to civilisation safe,” his Spy says, cupping a mug of cold water in both his shaking hands. “Maybe two of them, if I’m very lucky.”

It’s hilarious. A shame he hadn’t thought of trying this before.

“I wonder what I did to deserve such good fortune,” the Assassin says, almost contemplatively. “Oh, yes. Slaughter everyone who said I didn’t.”

“What are we doing today?” his Innocent asks, in a voice that could almost pass for indifferent. Charming, really.

“Moving all your luggage up to the bridge, I rather think. And a crate of supplies, to be on the safe side. And anything else on this ship that strikes my fancy and isn’t tied down- no, especially if it is tied down, just for spite.”

“That’ll mean a lot of heavy lifting. Not sure I’m up to that.”

“You’re the engineer. If you haven’t worked out a way to mechanise cargo lifting, that’s entirely on you- unless you’d rather pry out that needlessly cutesy couple from wherever it is they’ve been hiding? I would rather like to see them again, before we leave. Pay my respects, that sort of thing…”

“Never mind. I’ll manage.”

So a pleasant, relaxed sort of day, while he wanders through the ship marking loot, and his exhausted Spy trailing after. Box of needlessly heavy tools from the engine room. Some entertainingly lurid-looking tomes from the Student’s room. A few of the finest jewels from the Herald’s denatured collection.

“Still dead, I presume?” he asks, observing his Spy staring at the blood-soaked corpse.  

“I don’t know. I don’t know whether it’s day or night, whether you’re my beloved or my target, whether I’m an innocent or a death-dealer. I don’t know anything at all, just at present,” his Spy returns. “Except that I’m famished. As usual.”

“You know, I expect with the weather we’re having, the corpse is still cold enough-“

“Shut up.”

“A sign of defiance, at the last! Though you’ll find pride makes very insubstantial eating.”

“You know, I don’t have to go anywhere near that Gate,” his Spy threatens. “I could just drop into the zee. Get away from you that way.”

“Ah. That would annoy me- and then, here I would be on a ship with two people you still seem to worry about, and nothing to do. How long a timespan would you care to estimate for their lives?”

“It would be a long time,” he says, in the face of a stubborn silence. “I’d be so terribly bored, you see.”

“That’s at least half the reason why we’re doing this Northward journey at all. At least if you kill me there, nobody else is going to get hurt.”

“Or you find exciting new friends, and I go after them instead.”

“Or we just die,” his Spy mumbles, slipping off the bed atop a cushion pile. There are an absurd number of cushions aboard this ship, and every one of them annoys him. “I still don’t know what Mr Eaten wants.”

“Sleep it over. I’ve just had a marvelous idea,” the Assassin says.

It will be an act of tremendous pettiness, to ignite all these creations of yarn and fluff into one glorious bonfire.

That’s why it’s going to be such fun to do. 


	20. il triello

Safe space. A safe space at last.

Winking Isle is cold beyond belief, wreathed in shadow, and its inhospitable summit offers no warmth nor food nor succor. But there’s a clean, calm serenity to it all. The memory of violence, to be sure; but never the violence itself.

And there’s company, of sorts. The Smuggler never leaves him now.

“I could just stay here, I guess,” the Innocent says aloud, as he circles the grass. “Stay hidden. Walk up and down to the lighthouse, rest in peace.”

“This isn’t a solution,” the Smuggler tells him, very gently. “Look at yourself. Only thing worse than starving to death, to my way of thinking, is dragging it out indefinitely.”

“Point.” Camphor, ice. No blood. Nothing to sharpen appetite, here; the pain is muted, a murmur constant but endurable. “But he isn’t here.”

“It won’t stop him for good. He’ll start Seeking himself if he has to, you know that. Trace your footsteps here- he’s an agent, that’s what he does.”

“So you want me to decide.”

“Before he does for you. Yes.”

“Forgiveness,” the Innocent murmurs. “Can’t do it. Not after her- not after you. I’d like to, but I’m just not that strong.“

“Strength hasn’t anything to do with it. Stop believing this is your fault.”

“There there’s cruelty. That’s the one he wants me to pick, that’s what he’s expecting to happen when we go North. That I’ll burn my candles and run, and he’ll revive and come after me…and we’ll just be caught in this endless cycle of hunt and seek, forever. That terrifies me.”

“You could try making a very thorough job of the violence. Plant a stake in the heart?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be my guardian angel?”

“Hell no,” the Smuggler says. “I’m just me. Piloting fetish, favourite hat and all- do you want to try that? Pay him back in his own coin, for once in your life?”

“…it’s not me,” the Innocent says eventually. “If I lose this naming, I’ll drift, and forget, and never find myself ever again. That’s just another way of letting him win.”

“So you need a third option.”

“Huh?”

“Just what I said. Something out of the blue,” the Smuggler says. “Break the cycle. Stop letting him chase you. Call the feds and ask for witness protection, get the help you need, don’t let him ever find you again- didn’t they ever give you this script at the Challengers Club? Abuse hotline and whatever.”

“I mostly just helped out with their hockey team, to be honest….but seriously, how am I supposed to arrange something like that? This isn’t the Surface. There aren’t any authorities to help me get away from an immortal stalker.”

The Smuggler considers. “Actually, maybe you can’t. You always were a rotten liar.”

“Well, there you go.”

“But that does give me an idea for a tasty little hustle…d’you trust me?”

“Sure, Jack.”

“Like, really trust me?”


	21. eyes open as the tender sky

The vast solemnity of the Gate lies before them.

The Assassin decides he doesn’t care for it. Too lonely (nobody to hurt), too unknowable (that’s just rude), and above all, far too cold. Such a place is naturally harmonious with his Innocent’s native instincts, and that he cannot approve. He pontificates about this at considerable length, while his Spy ignores him. Taking a considerable time to fashion some sort of luggage-carrying contraption.

It’s not really how he’d been imagining this scene, standing around on the ice while his Innocent finds one last excuse for a bout of engineering; and the delay annoys him. He glares at the receding cutter in the distance.  

“It occurs to me that it would be a wonderful sort of cruelty all its own, if I was to set a match to those precious Surface goodies you’ve inherited. After all, they weren't my idea- and that offends me on principle.” He heaves a sigh. “Pity, really. I suppose there’s no knowing what sort of environment we might find on the other side, so we’d best keep all this.”

“Oh good,” his Spy says, somewhat tonelessly.

“But we’ll save weight by disposing of the knives. Yours aren’t any good for stabbing people.”

He drops each one into the zee, bright red flashes like falling petals. His Spy frowns.

“Did you cut yourself? Or no- that looks half-healed.”

“Nothing of significance.” A fragment of glass, lodged deep into the flesh. Since the Chapel, it doesn’t even hurt.

“Lemme fix it,” his Innocent says, painfully helpful as ever.

He allows his hand to be taken, held close; then pulls it away in one elegant movement, scoring a wound across his Innocent’s wrist. It is a supremely entertaining sight, to watch a Seeker’s hunger in action. The frantic gulp of blood, the sudden crazed desire for further, more sustaining fare.  

“Bite me,” the Assassin offers; and watches with glee, judging just the right time for intervention (after the decision, before the act). “Only do remember. I’m made of wax now.”

His Innocent moans, and faints away. The curl of his body on the ice is provoking as an elegy.

“Inanition and a few choice words. I am rather good,” the Assassin says tenderly. “For old time’s sake, I simply couldn’t resist- but never fear, soon we’ll be past your fretted Gate. A universe all our own, perhaps? Now there’s a delectable dream- you and I alone together, perfectly satisfying me and eternally inflamming your hungers-”

“Knock, knock.”

He turns back towards the zee. Stares at the figure there, leaning against the dock with perfect sang-froid.

“I consider it extremely declasse to talk to people I’ve already murdered.”

“You’re supposed to say, who’s there,” Jack Dalton says. “Ruined a perfectly good joke. Anyway. Last time I checked, you weren’t half a ton of Elder Continent granite.”

“Are you dead or aren’t you?”

The pilot shrugs. “As of about three minutes ago, pretty sure I’ve got a ticket back on the life express. Nice one, Murdoc. You finally broke him.”

“Of course I haven’t. It’s hardly a wound at all, he’ll recover easily enough.”

“All this talk about going to the Gate,” Jack observes. “And you just assumed that when he reached it, he’d go North. The heroic option, the dramatic one, the big climatic ending to cap everything off…well, that ain’t gonna happen. Watch. He’s turning back.”

“But this is everything he wanted to do. Take me away in a bold self-sacrificial gesture, and make sure I couldn’t hurt anyone else he cared about.”

“Yeah. He can’t do it.”

“Oh?”

“He can’t figure out how to betray you. You’ve got too much of a hold over him. Seven betrayals, he’s only managed six, the math says you’re not going north.”

“How very flattering.”

“But in a quarter of an hour or so, he’s going to wake up. Lie in the snow a while, think about how long it’s been since he felt safe, and happy, and not like he’s perpetually starving to death. And then he staggers over here, writes a name on this pillar- and you know what? It’s not going to be his. It’ll be mine. Some way lost Admirality ship will pick up this annoyingly cheerful airship pilot, and that’ll be that.”

“Namings do not work that way-“

“Possession does, though- didn’t you notice? The way he was acting up after Mutton Island, you think that was our temperate troubleshooter? I didn’t ask him to throw over his life for me,” Jack says. “But you’ve made it damned near impossible for him to live his own. Call my name and see what he does.”

“Jack Dalton,” the Assassin growls, stepping towards the phantom; but with just the edge of his vision fixed on the distant fallen figure.

It moves accordingly, cries a faint response.

“He’s so tired,” Jack says, looking over with compassion. “Gonna need one hell of a lot of rest n’ relaxation. Well, a few months of boozing and bacon sandwiches ought to take care of that. Sunbathing in Port Carnelian. Huh, I should see about a hair cut first. His looked ridiculous even before it went so ragged- hey!”

The sword-cane cuts through empty air; but the pilot looks exasperated nonetheless. “Manners, huh?”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Then I’m no worse off than I am now. And you lose him.”

“You said it would require a naming,” the Assassin growls. “Then all I have to do is stop him writing anything, until I’ve talked him around to sense again.”

“You could do that.” The pilot looks around. “And sure, maybe you’re full up on cider, but over there we have a nervous wreck who’s freezing and half starved to death. How long do you figure he’ll last at the Avid Horizon?”

“…I have to understand that any Seeker can turn back to safety before the Gate. Even within sight of it.”

“Yup,” Jack says smugly. “It involves carving your name into the pillar right here,” he says, slapping it soundlessly. “Get the picture? Nice little trap you’ve let yourself in for? I always did wonder, whether it was Mac you fancied or just his looks. Guess we’ll find out when I move in-”

“Enough.”

The Assassin walks back up towards the Gate, looks at the fallen body in the snow. “For once, Innocent, a piece of violence wasn’t my idea. I know. Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

The bluish flesh is too cold to cut neatly, he judges. Fortunately, there are plenty of candles about. He lights them, warms his Innocent to blood temperature again, and cuts a neat scrape of flesh off the collarbone. No larger than a communion wafer.(There’s screams, naturally, and he’ll remember those with pleasure later; but right now there’s business to attend to.)

The taste is nothing distinctive- as though he consumed his own flesh- and that pleases him. To find that they’re so similar, after all.

“Why would you want to be a Seeker?” his Innocent asks, once able to speak again. “It’s not something I’d recommend.”

“To bring you home, my dear Innocent. Do you know, I’m very flattered. To be taken all the way to the ends of the earth, only for you to find that you simply can’t betray me after all- why, it’s almost like love, it really is. We must be making progress.”

“Love you,” his Innocent moans, into the snow; and the Assassin beams with delight.

“Now, then. I can’t say as I feel noticeably different now- isn’t there to be an alphabet of scars, or some such malarkey?”

“That isn’t how Seeking works,” his Innocent moans, exhausted. “You have to make the mistake twice. That way everyone’s clear it wasn’t an accident.”

So he does it all over again. The screams sound much the same.

Walking back down to the dock again, contemptuously indifferent to a certain unravelling fretfulness (really, was this slight hollowness all that his Innocent had to complain about?). Jack moves out of his way, looking anxious.

“Hang on. If you’re a Seeker now, and you’re writing your name here-”

“Then I’ll attract the magic, or whatever it may be, and take the Innocent back with me. So much for the Gate, and I suppose that’s a pity- but I’m sure we’ll find plenty to do in the Neath all the same. Especially now he’s coming round…”

He carves his names on the pillar, both of them to make all sure, and finishes with a flourish. Steps back.

“Is anything happening?”

“…you’re promised a ship,” Jack says by way of explanation. “And what d’you know, there’s a London ship right over the way. They’ll take you home.”

“Oh, not that blasted cutter again.”

“They get a set rate from the Admiralty for bringing rescues home. Not a great price, but it pays expenses.”

“Dalton, why do you know all this?”

“Cos I went off and checked the laws on pardons the day I hit Port Carnelian. Duh. That’s just being smart.”

“I will be very grateful when your wisdom leads you to do something else with your afterlife existence, besides hanging around annoying me.”

Jack coughs, indelicately. “Yeah. Thanks for the advice, Jack. Making sure I didn’t accidentally let my squeeze die in a blizzard or anything.”

“I would have worked it out eventually,” the Assassin says, and goes back to check on his Innocent.

“You look better. I’m surprised.”

“Engineering has that effect,” his Innocent says, making a few adjustments to the weird contraption. It is neat, and elegant, and powered by no engine he can see. The colours are attractive. There are wings.

“You built an aeroplane? And you talk about anachronisms!”

“Yeah, well…last I checked, they didn’t have space travel in 1895 either. So it’s not much of a leap. I mean, I don’t want to carry all this stuff through the Gate myself. I’d throw my back out.”

It takes the Assassin a moment, to recognise how the entire universe has smoothly, quietly, horrifyingly, upended itself and puled him out in disgust.

It takes him another one to decide he doesn’t believe that just happened. “But you’re not going North.”

“Ah,” his Innocent returns. “I didn’t say that. Jack said that.”

“But-“

“Jack’s a terrible fibber, should I have warned you? Figured it was kinda obvious.”

“Your last betrayal. You couldn’t think of one for me-“

“Yeah, no. The betrayal,” his Innocent says, “is just what it needed to be all along. Finally accepting that I’m not responsible for you, or your actions, or the people you hurt and then blame me for not protecting. Figuring out a life for myself that doesn’t have you in the picture anywhere- and after that, we just had to figure out the equivalent of a restraining order.” He smiles. “And since this is the Neath, we get to do it with witchcraft.”

“I’m a Seeker now. It’ll take time, but I’ll follow you through the Gate eventually-“

“Not gonna work,” his Innocent says, softly but very clear. “Should have done your homework more carefully, Murdoc. Any Seeker can turn back at the Gate. Once. After that, you can’t ever pass it.”

“…I suppose that Herald gave you this scintillating piece of advice. Superstitious waffle. I’ll follow you.”

“Superstitious? Real science is about learning to adjust your assumptions when they don’t match what’s really happening- but then, I guess you’ll never understand a thing like that. You about ready, Jack? I want to take this thing on a test spin before we run her through the Gate.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” the pilot says, hopping up into the winged contraption. “Come to papa! Have I ever missed this.”

“You’re not even corporeal!”

“It’s a disadvantage,” his Innocent admits. “But not totally insurmountable, I fixed up a trick or two. You know I’m pretty good with engines.”

“…”

“Oh, and Murdoc?”

“What?”

“I wasn’t ever your Innocent.”

His failure to think up a devastating comeback, as the plane sweeps off into the distance, is hardly the most serious or long-term consequence of the day’s events.

And yet, somehow that one rankles most.


	22. appetere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I were being diligent, I should admit to myself that this whole affair needs some cleaning up, and editing, and a chapter or two more. Dealing with the company's exploits on Pigmote, or the Surface, or any of a hundred and one other directions this narrative could have wandered off the trail. 
> 
> However, as it's most unlikely any of that will happen...here's an ending to it, at least.

“All your sins forgiven,” the Student says, when the Assassin steps aboard. “And it’s a good thing for you the Captain said that, because otherwise…”

“Otherwise, what?” he asks, no more sullen than he can help. (There is some small relief in having company again; if no one else can be as captivating as the Seeker, no one at all is worse yet.) “He mayn’t have understood the virtue of cider, but I’m sure you have no trouble with the concept. There’s a certain limiting factor on what you can do to me.”

The Student studies him, and speaks a phrase, limp and flowing as water. The Assassin finds his legs buckling beneath him.

“Correspondence for a shaping,” the Student muses, watching the frantic writhing. “Liquid and fire at once, I wonder whether- but you’re not worth the effort. Just be grateful that the Captain’s busy holding the ship together.”

If he must sit on the deck to regain a little dignity, then perforce he must. “Sighing for the loss of its engineer?”

“Something like that. I swear it would have followed him North, if it could.” A fine pride flickers across the Student’s face. “Any other ship- but we’ve a strong Captain, and they know their Neath. The _Clipper_ will make London again, you needn’t fear about that.”

“I wasn’t planning to. No use paying for a pardon unless you expect to use it.” At an unfathomably high price: but never mind. If he has to overthrow the Bazaar’s hold, pull London to the Surface or drain the Unterzee to open that Gate again, he’ll manage. All it requires is time; and he now possesses that in disgusting abundance.

(Far better than the last time the Seeker had left, is it not? Months of memories, teasing and adoring? But no, they trickle through his mind with indifference, refusing to touch the wellsprings of desire. As ever, then: only the real presence could attract him.)

“I’d like to ask something,” the Student interrupts.

“You’ll die curious.” He attempts standing. Finds his legs less rubbery, but twitching with pins and needles; so down again he goes. (Not as if the Seeker could see him.)

“Undoubtedly. But here’s the thing. When you came aboard the ship, it was obvious that our Innocent held all the cards. And then I had my- interruption- and by the time I was clear-headed enough to notice other people again, suddenly you’re in charge. What happened?”

“Temptation. I did kill him, you know.”

After waiting a hundred years, a lifetime, the perfect opportunity at last. And not so as to even leave hurt. “I only took a little, but it was enough. I held him after that.”

“By what ritual?”

These damned Londoners, convinced that everything must needs have magic, spells, gods to back it. “Nothing at all, except the pattern I’d set for him. I assure you that was more than enough.”

“Obviously not in the long run…”

Damn Dalton, too. And this lot of surly zailors, into the bargain. “I should have had my star forever fixed- but I will eventually. If this whole Neath has to burn, to melt the ice of that Gate.”

“I wish you joy of the attempt,” the Student says, not very interested now. “Captain!”

(Their embrace is needlessly crude.)

“For Stone’s sake, let’s get inside,” they say. “What’s out here worth looking at- ah. Him.”

He does manage to rise this time, for an ironic bow. “A ticket back to London, I have to understand?”

“You’d best not be expecting us to feed you,” they observe; but allow him entrance to the bridge. “And don’t think you’ll be getting away with anything this voyage. Now I haven’t a cutter trying to convince me she’s a rocket, I’ll be minding the shop rather more sternly.”

“Understood.” He’ll need time alone, to plot and plan. “I shall retire to my cabin, and attend to the goat. A service which you’ll all appreciate, no doubt.”

“You all seem to have forgotten something.”

The Herald’s voice, soft and elegant as ever; though he can see she strains to maintain that easy pose. Her weight supported by the ship’s wheel, sweat upon her brow, the tells are obvious to a professional like himself.

Impressive all the same, nevertheless. “I suppose it’d be churlish for me, of all people, to ask why nobody stays properly dead around here?”

“I understood you asked once, what would be the effect of drowning in cider. Incorruptibility.”

“Cheater.”

“I don’t follow Stone for nothing,” the Herald says, toying with a box. “So there was no false godhood to attend to after all. Pity. I’d rather looked forward to my role as vengeful instrument of wrath- speaking of which!”

In all the ludicrous machinations, their rivalry of hearts and minds, the Seeker would have never attempted anything so downright absurd as this. She throws the box. He catches it by instinct.

It shatters open, bursting against him with bright heady sunlight. Waste of a good mirror-catch box. There are so many far easier, less expensive ways to slaughter people.

(Still. He can’t but admire someone else on this ship taking after his methods.)

******  
“Timing?”

“Timing. The Innocent and I worked it out between us- after all, Gawain’s had to burn before he went through the Gate.”

Cider leads to quick resurrection (this one more dramatic than usual- flesh in place of wax, the melting away of stitches- a pity, he’d enjoyed his stint as walking mannequin of death). It can’t be more than a few minutes since he died; and he isn’t the sort to lie craftily in waiting. “I see you’ve blown a hole in your own ship’s bridge. Well done.”

“But you couldn’t have known you’d get that right!” the Student says, almost wailing with exasperation. “Three minutes off either way, and the Gate wouldn’t ever open for him!”

“There’s more than one eyrie of gods in the Neath, Student,” the Herald says. “And some of them are very adept with timing…I've burnt through rather more than my share of family favours this last year, I’ll have to admit that.”

“Does anybody care I’m here?” the Assassin inquires. “Awake, and feeling better than ever.”

“No,” the Captain says, very shortly.

“Yes,” the Herald says, suddenly. “There’s a ritual you could help me with- if you’d care to follow in the Innocent’s footsteps.”

That phrase would have drawn him to far more dreadful places than her unkempt cabin (still scented with iron, and rather thoroughly raked over now). He waits aglow with impatience, while she rests, evidently exhausted.

“Language,” she says.

“Get on with it.”

“I’ll be better in a moment. Definitions,” she says, with half-closed eyes, “are very important. People think they’re saying and agreeing to the same thing, when they’ve different notions of what’s happening all the time.”

“The point at which my Innocent started talking technical gobbledygook was exactly when he became least interesting. I’m far more interested in actions.”

“Then I’ll have your attention soon enough, never you fear,” the Herald says. “Immortal, for instance. The popular reckoning of cider, that it makes it impossible for you to die- well, that’s not so. It simply makes it easier to come back.”

“I assure you, I’m well aware of all those little loopholes. But the general effect’s satisfactory enough, wouldn’t you say?”

“Consumption,” she murmurs. “Sublimation- didn’t you ever wonder how anything with the protections of a Master should happen to die? They don’t need little fruits for their span of years- and yet, Mr Eaten was cut down.”

“I leave the theology to you,” the Assassin says. “Is this going anywhere?”

“Oh, yes. If a party is subsumed by a greater power, it isn’t quite the same as a death- and so that’s the loophole that was necessary to take down the Dreamer in the first place. To be eaten, consumed, offered up- not altogether dead, but close enough for practical purposes.”

He appreciates the silence. Less irritating than her Sunday school lessons.

“All right, forget the history lesson. Shall we talk about what this ship’s company is going to do to you?”

“All my sins forgiven,” he says, bitter and yet amused. “I’m untouchable for all those crimes, every last one. Soul as pure as the driven snow, remember?”

“For all your previous sins,” the Herald agrees, staring at him feverishly. “But not for any committed since then.”

“Since-“

“Opening a mirror-catch box. By the zee-code, that makes you a prisoner.”

“How tediously mundane- how ordinary!”

“The only appropriate fate for an Unimaginative Assassin, I should say,” she quips. “Memories of chains, remember? You’ll have to start somewhere.”

“Not quite that naive, I’m afraid.” She is beginning to interest him, now. A strong nature, evidently struggling against its own temptations (how like his Innocent…). “I’ve no intention of allowing you to shackle me. Just tell me what I have to do to join him, and I’ll arrange it.”

“Go north.”

“How?”

“He doesn’t want you,” she says, abruptly harsh and abrupt. “Anybody else on this ship would hie themselves to Kingeater’s, sooner than help you reunite with him. Our own precious Innocent, clean and worthy, refusing to meet the Neath on its terms. Always so hopeful. And the moment you came, it all ended, and all the ancient patterns surged back. Just a victim, no more memorable than any other lost soul in Spite, or the Khanate, or Whither….I don’t think any of us can express just how much cause you’ve given us to hate you.”

“Anyone else. Are you saying you’ll help me, then?”

“Out of weakness, perhaps. Not strength.”

He was right; her succumbing is so much like his Innocent’s. Provocative and tantalising, both. The thought fills the Assassin with pleasure, restores a measure of his self-worth- if he’s won her over thusly, a touch of Richard III for this makeshift Anne, then all the rest is possible.

(To catch his beloved object again, drowning in a net of love, and hold him thus forevermore…)

“Days to Mount Palmerston, next to no supplies, and I’ve slept since chapel. Assassin,” the Herald says. “I’d ask you to make peace with your gods, if I thought you had any.”

The knife she brings out is the crimson of drying blood, a toy, with a blade no longer than his thumb. “With that little contraption? You couldn’t pierce my boot with that.”

“I’ve no interest in your boots,” she returns. “Tell me, then, what’s the marrow of your tale? To make me put away my revenge?”

(Is it lies, or truth? How dare she profess a ghost, and pronounce the memory as solid stuff?) “Why, it’s simple enough. I’m your roguish charming hero, with a trick up my sleeve and complex moralities by the bucketful. He’s the love object, the inamorato, the leda who tantalises for the sake of drawing onwards- and I will have him, Herald, whatever it costs me!”

She trembles before his onslaught, and he can tell he’s won at last; broken her resolve, shattered her spirit, dissolved the bonds that should have held her secrets from him. All to be won, then.

“He was so good,” she murmurs. “Impossibly so. He tempted me to be better than I was.”

“Quite,” the Assassin agrees; and for a moment they are in perfect accord. “Why I wanted him I'll never know- but that hardly matters now, does it?”

“I’ll do you this much credit,” the Herald says. “Just at present, I only want you.”

“A most understandable madness. Don’t fret.”

Gently, now, like he practiced on his Innocent; a little unanticipated kindness, resting the dough between blows. Poison mixed in with the milk. His hold on her will be all the stronger for it- why, the matter's bearing fruit already. That creeping flush of shame, so thoroughly unexpected on her features, that does much to soothe his soul-

“You do look so delicious.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Some Aftermath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15782859) by [ChangelingChilde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangelingChilde/pseuds/ChangelingChilde)




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